


The Wont of the Gods

by Analogue_Doucheface



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: A blight is an adventure right?, Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon Divergence, F/F, Grief/Anger, Humor - Can't Turn it Off, Mystery, Plot Twists, Slow Burn Romance, Tortured Soul Hero/Battle of Inner Demons, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:57:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analogue_Doucheface/pseuds/Analogue_Doucheface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 9:37 Dragon, shortly after the Kirkwall rebellion. The Hero of Ferelden is missing and Divine Justinia V enlists her two most trusted agents to locate her. It just so happens, one of those women is Leliana and she also wants to know where her lover has run off to. To find her the two Hands of the Divine must scour the lands of the hero's upbringing, searching through her mysterious past for any evidence as to where she might now be. However, the more Leliana uncovers, she finds herself wondering... Did I ever really know her at all?</p>
<p>"Yesterday we were and today we have become, for this is the wont of the gods."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Will You Remember Me?

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The title and the summary are excerpts from Kahlil Gibran's poem on progress, "Children of Gods, Scion of Apes." I will probably make a reference to it at some point later on. I would recommend reading it, personally, because I am his biggest fangirl.  
> Enough of the weighty snippets.  
> First and foremost, this is a fan fiction wlw romance.  
> More tags and characters to be added as I update. Also, the rating is definitely going up to Mature eventually.

Leliana clutches the smooth aquamarine stone set into her necklace as she looks onto the vellum in her hand. The letter hadn't been hidden particularly well. She had found it folded and placed amongst memorabilia in an ordinary chest by the bed. The bedroom itself was desolate and impersonal. The large four poster bed, though lavish and inviting, was perfectly rigid and displayed no signs of use. Leliana had set a single candle – the sole source of light present in the room – atop one of the end tables, which were empty, save for a collection of moisture rings. Sloppy, Leliana had thought, most likely that damned pirate's influence. The fireplace was devoid of tinder or ashes, the marble clean of char and soot. Naught but formal attire freshly pressed and prim hung in the opulent armoire. Even the writing desk held scant little; mostly reminders of scheduled expeditions and research, notes on companion well-being, and an occasional immature doodle.

The only evidence of a woman who might have lived here was shut away in a small unassuming chest. Both items atop were wrapped delicately in royal sea silk; curiously fine material for such otherwise commonplace objects. The first, a ring carved from a dark wood. Leliana recognized the ring. It was worn by the warden the entirety she had known her. On closer inspection, the pattern of the ring appeared to slither about. Leliana couldn't be positive in the unreliable flicker of candlelight, but the movement in the fiber seemed to resemble...a bird? In an instant the wood shifted again and... now a wolf? Bizarre, indeed, and no doubt magical. She had decided to pocket the ring and have it further investigated later.

The second swaddled relic had been an old, desiccant rose. The stem brittle and the once velvet petals dried and shriveled, however, the deep red hue had not lost its beauty. Below the two small bundles sat a folded cobalt tunic faded and threadbare from considerable use. Leliana stroked the fabric fondly, her fingers reminiscing over the familiar wool. Placing the tunic gingerly aside, Leliana exposed a bountiful cache of small, rough blue stones and white petals. The aroma made its escape, tantalizing her nose, confirming for Leliana what she had already known to be Andraste's Grace. That was when the first sob threatened to take leave of her.

Fully hidden beneath it all lay the letter she now clung to. Leliana clasps her necklace, praying to the Maker for strength to read the words, to gaze upon the well-known calligraphy lost to her, without weeping bitterly. She moved closer to the light, watching the quivering lick of flame match the trembling of her hands.

"Oh..." The tears she knew she would not be capable of hindering began their slow descent.

_Remember, Leliana..._

She took a sharp inhale of breath attempting to stave off the muted racking of her body. Her life had become a game of espionage. She focused on her work, her reports; left severed from humanity in the shadows – distant and alone with her thoughts for company. It _hurt_ to remember. Closing her eyes, she willed the tormenting cogitation to proceed.

_Remember her scars – she had many, she treasured them all and could tell you where she got every single one. She was weird like that. I... I can't recall them all. I remember the striking ones. The puckered hole in her stomach from the arrow she took for Alistair at the Tower of Ishal. The savage slashes on her right side she came back with from her battle with Flemeth. The shallow puncture on her chest earned from a past lover. And the strange burn-looking divots around her eyes, easy to miss with hair falling in her face. Six, or was it seven now? Small blemishes starting at the outside tip of her right eye, evenly circling under, tracing her lower lashes. Every time I had asked about them she would give some dodgy answer. I thought I understood; I don't know that I ever will. Typical. With my work in the shadows, I have not received any new scars. She has seen every one of mine, kissed them all. She could tell you where I got each and every one in greater detail than I could myself, I bet. Like I said, she was weird like that...But I didn't mind. My body was irrevocably hers._

"I don't want to forget you."

_Why did she have to make this so difficult? Remember, Leliana. In spite, **remember**_.

She drew in an uneven breath attempting to calm her composure.

_Brown, most of the time...black when it wasn't really her...They were brown. Golden when the sun could catch them. She often hid her eyes in shadows, fearing what one could glimpse in the light. The sun effortlessly intruding into the windows of the soul, betraying the truth, highlighting the insatiable black streaks only visible in contrast to beautiful aurelian. The darkness aching to escape from within, to take control. I have only witnessed the release, the submission to oblivion twice. Three times if you count the dream...It has something to do with those burns encompassing her eye, I just know it..._

Leliana couldn't help but laugh. It had always been like a match of hide-and-seek with her. She had been so reluctant to let Leliana inside, to let her see her, to know her, to let her love her. She had told Leliana from day one that she had prior obligations, that she could never give herself wholly to her. She had told her this day would come. And here Leliana was, chasing after her.

_What was she so blasted afraid of? The color of her eyes are brown._

"I will not allow you into oblivion. You won't get off that easy."

"I have found nothing." She inwardly cringed as the abrasive Nevarran accent encroached upon her vows. Leliana straightened and brushed away remnants of emotion from her now stony face before turning to face the woman. "I hope you have had better luck than I have," the intruder finishes.

"No, Cassandra." The woman – Cassandra, makes no attempt to conceal the annoyance visible in her bearing and tone. Cassandra Pentaghast; Nevarran royalty, Seeker of Truth, and Right Hand of the Divine. Leliana had grown accustomed to her brash directness and utter indifference to the Game. She had thought at first that Cassandra's blunt honesty and clear disgust in the face of others a grand ruse. However, after well-nigh six years in service to the Divine together, the seeker proved to be an unwavering ally of fierce piousness. The two worked well together, regardless of their differing approach to their duties. Cassandra preferred to be forthright and impulsive where Leliana was insidious and calculating - she couldn’t afford to be idealistic. Leliana understood life did not care about values, about desires, about what she might have wanted. Life stood impervious, harvesting its toll and leaving behind abandoned, barren fields. "Nothing we do not already know." She decided Cassandra need not know about the letter. She worked well with Cassandra, yes, and she trusted the seeker; nonetheless, Leliana was still a collector of secrets. She knew the power something personal could hold over a person, she knew it to be a weakness. Besides, she hadn't lied; only heartache lay in the letter, and heartache was nothing new to Leliana.

"So," Cassandra began, "What shall we do, where do we find her? Where do we start?"

"At the beginning." Leliana knew it wouldn't be that simple. There had always been secrets; words withheld, questions unasked, answers made forfeit. How much had been the truth...It would be an impossible puzzle with pieces scattered around Thedas and segments no one had been witness to. It was a fool's errand. She herself knew little facts, if the Left Hand of the Divine was negligent, what hope would any have?

"To Highever then. To question the Teyrn," Cassandra says, drawing Leliana from her musing.

Nodding affirmation, Leliana agrees, "It's as good a starting place as any."

"Very well." With that Cassandra departs, leaving Leliana between the capricious dance of candlelight and obscurity. Venom festering in her heart, alone with the shadows and her thoughts, once again... 

_I promise this to you, **my dear:** you will not get away with this. You cannot go to oblivion as long as I have you imprisoned within my own heart. I will not absolve you. I will not let you slip from my memory._

The candle sputters, choking on blackness, and succumbs. Leliana draws her hood and allows her eyes to adjust, conceding to the darkness. She hears the clanking of Cassandra’s armor receding into the distance. Withdrawing from the estate, Leliana moves with all the silence of the night through the shadows to rejoin her colleague.

“I am bound.”


	2. Highever

**9:37 Dragon**

The spring blossoms wane and Fergus undertakes the daunting task of replying to seemingly never-ending amounts of noble correspondence that had begun to accumulate, unchecked, upon his desk. Lords and Ladies of his teyrnir, inquiring after his health and interested to know whether he will be attending the summer circuit this season. He always did, of course. As a man of his stature and prolonged availability, his appearance at these parties was all but required. He has been attending since he was a young boy, parading himself anxiously before all the other nobles of Ferelden – gushing over his dapperness and scheming for future alliances.

What had made the summers tolerable, throughout the entire ordeal, was the presence of his little sister. Without fail, she could be counted on and _expected_ to make any party more engaging. Mother would do her best to instill proper genteel behavior and dear Lethe, Maker bless her, would last a single dance before losing herself in some devilry. As appalled as Mother had always been, the nobility had a soft spot for little Lethe Cousland, forever charmed by her rueful smile. Sadly, his sister has been absent from the summer circuit for a decade and a half now, lucky bugger.

He falters out an extended, weary sigh. Perhaps if he took a wife his being there could be overlooked at a handful of events. Electing, possibly, to send his wife and an unfortunate child of his in his stead; condemned to strut in front of the nobility with the same uncertainty he felt as a boy. But he did not have one of those… Nor, did he have a wife. Thus, he would attend as he always had. Dancing and laughing; and hating it all the same. At the end of the festivities for the night, withdrawing to a forlorn bed with the sting of freshly lanced solitude. Maker, he hated the summer.

 

* * *

 

  **9:20 Dragon**

“I hate the summer!” Lethe wailed as she reeled around the grandiose wash tub and out the door, another hapless serving girl toppling over in pursuit. The young noble has never behaved quite so uncivilized in years past at the mention of the approaching summer circuit. Each year she was made presentable to participate, as was her duty, in the puttering of the aristocracy. Granted, she had never been what anyone would consider eager to undergo the grooming and primping, still, such a display from the reticent girl was astonishing. The popular theory among the staff put the girl’s newest chum to blame. As the child aged, she showed more interest in wandering unaccompanied into the southern wilds and small bordering towns. Her father, worried for her safety, had bestowed the gift of a mabari pup on her previous name day. The two had become inseparable – her sidekick in tomfoolery and sole confidant. Consequently, the girl adopted the mongrel’s feral imprudence. Furthermore, in this moment, watching the pair of ruffians sashay madly about the estate the girl’s nanny couldn’t help but think it was the worst possible gift for the Teyrn’s daughter. 

“Lady Cousland! If you are quite finished knocking the washer girls on their asses–!” Before she could complete her reprimand Lethe came hurtling into the washroom – the mabari pup vaulting heedlessly behind her. He made an endeavor to veer his trajectory, managing only to skid slightly before plunging uncouthly into the tub. The resulting shower of bath water deluging all occupants of the room and summoning a shallow rivulet, trickling out the door. Shock held the chamber in a stupor, droplets drip their getaway before the trance fractures. Lethe offers a single uncertain laugh.

“I think I won that one, boy,” Lethe laughing hesitantly again. The dog shakes violently, mustering a second bout of downpour, then yaps brightly. He props up his haunches and gives Lethe his frisky play bow. The laugh it coaxes from her is sincere and hearty, the resonance of which jolts the lingering daze into recession.

“That bloody mutt has proven to be the bane of my very existence! More trouble than he’s worth – I will have words with Your Lordship father about this… this blasted mongrel and the antics the two of you revel in. An ill-educated Chasid Wilder would give me less grief! Now send that beast away and clean yourself as befit a young lady of your position! Oh, don’t you give me that look, hound! You are just as wicked as the girl and I am unmoved by your sad eyes.”

The dog whines, drawing his ears back – the picture of repentance. He looks to Lethe who scratches his drooped head and coos reassurances before employing large, pleading brown eyes of her own.

“You can hardly expect a mabari war hound to bathe on command like some cream puff debutante, Nan. Besides, it _is_ my fault; one of the servants asked if I was looking forward to dancing with the young boys of court and, well… I told her Gabe was the only boy I intended on dancing with this summer, and Nan, he’s not half bad!” That had been an interesting sight, indeed. It started with Lethe’s mock hip sways in time with twirling. She had not realized Gabe would be so receptive. He had, without hesitation, hopped to his back two legs attempting to mimic her movements with bounces of his own and howling effusively. Surprised by her hound’s exuberance, Lethe could feel the insuppressible elation deepen until laughter erupted, unbridled and free. “We were prancing and whirling through the estate minding our own business, cutting up a rug, until some spoilsport mentioned something about mud everywhere and soaping the both of us down. Before I knew it, I was challenging Gabe, I asked him if he thought he could evade the scrub down longer than me. Obviously, I won. Although, not by much it seems… it looks like I took my bath after all, Nan. You should be pleased, really.” Gabe barks in agreement, wagging his tail merrily. “Who said baths couldn’t be fun, am I right?”

Lethe smirked impishly and Gabe barks again. To Nan’s credit, she did not interject a hateful curse or scoff the entirety of Lethe’s absurd confession. Sooner than Nan could open her mouth to administer her amply replenished ire, Lethe threw her hands out between them in surrender.

“I know, I’m sorry, Nan. We’ll get cleaned up without another word or fuse.” Behind her, Gabe whimpers at the mention of “clean.” Nan appears only the slightest bit appeased by the girl’s words, unconvinced by the persistence of her sly smile.

“I do believe you are conscience-stricken, as you are each time you lose control of yourself; I also know your attention span well enough that if I don’t separate and baby sit the two of you the job will never be done. Now, send the hound off to the stables, you can tell him you will collect him when it is time to depart for Highever.”

Lethe nods her resignation. Before she spins around to comply with the scolding, a glint of woe unravels behind her eyes – but leaves the smile untouched.

“Come on, Gabe, you heard Nan.” The two saunter out, trailed by an unbroken whine, barely discernable. Lethe’s gait remains confident, grin in place; yet the quaver in her voice is startling to the girl’s nanny when she begins whispering, “I didn’t lose control… I just… I just forgot myself for a moment. It was merely a bit of fun…”

Lethe’s eyes seek Nans, begging. It was perhaps a harsh choice of words, Nan considers, twinging with regret. The outburst had been abhorrent, and improper of a Teyrn’s daughter; but the child was ordinarily well principled. Additionally, as aloof as she could be, at times the girl could be remarkably sensitive and vulnerable. Gabe offers a tentative lick to his friend’s hand. Lethe chuckles softly, glancing down at him, the ever present smile looking genuine once again. “You’ll always have my back, won’t you Gabe?” She sounds relieved and at ease; Gabe’s answering bark has her in full spirits and laughing ardently. Even Nan is grinning warmly over at the two jokesters.

“I know, child,” comes Nan’s belated reply, although it is clear at this point that Gabe has provided for Lethe the console she sought more than any choice words from Nan could have. If Lethe hears her remark, she makes no sign of acknowledgement. The duo mosey out of sight, and soon Nan can no longer hear the pup’s pronounced treading or Lethe’s soft prattle.

_“Maybe this summer won’t be so bad, boy, escorted by such a fine young gentleman…”_

Oh, that silly mutt… Gabe had the innate ability to soothe Lethe. She simply had not been the prattling sort before him, Nan recalls. She hadn’t been the _talking_ sort. She memorized her studies, she excelled at her combat training, and she vanished. If approached for a question or conversation she would be civil and polite but distant, reserved. Often times, a day would go by – and now more recently _multiple_ days – Lethe nowhere to be found, spotted suddenly striding from the trees. She would shrug off any inquiries or concerns with offhand assurances and proceed to handily defy restrictions set upon her. Thus, Gabe came to be. Nothing could prevent Lethe from her foolhardy roaming, but an adorable, slobbering precaution was met with affection. The hound could be seen trotting beside Lethe everywhere, even returning with her from her unknown treks. The girl was special; it was good someone would look out for her when she wouldn’t care for herself. Perhaps the pup hadn’t been such a bad gift after all, Nan reflects, but she would never be caught telling him that.

 

* * *

 

**9:37 Dragon**

“Your Lordship, the guests have arrived.”

“And they say the Maker doesn’t intervene in the lives of his children.” Fergus had sat slumped in his study all morning and the better part of an afternoon. His lunch had been brought to him and he had been interrupted far too infrequently for his liking. He scratched his name one last time before returning his quill to the inkpot. The muscles of his hand revolted in their customary rioting and he stretched, attempting to pacify them. They ached for the days of casual swordplay; the stress of political eloquence left him clenching excessively firm to his quill most days and he missed the natural, sure hold of metal.

“Your Lordship?”

Fergus nearly forgot, he still had business to see to – to accommodate, more like. Agents of the Divine – they had written in the letter he received half a fortnight ago. They had not, however, disclosed the purpose of their visit in aforementioned letter. As curious as he was, he would not neglect his responsibility as a Teyrn to be hospitable.

“See them to their rooms, they must wish to rest and wash. Inform them dinner will be served at sun down.” Fergus turned to the window, the sun began its coquettish dip into the western tree line, he gauged there to be enough time left of sunlight for a few quick spars. He felt himself smile at the prospect. Just because he was a tamed, respectable Teyrn didn’t mean he couldn’t act like a brutish adolescent every once in a while and hit things senselessly with a sword. Isn’t that what being an adult was about? Being trapped in a loveless marriage to duty and obligation and integrity, yet given the allowance to loosen your handle on sanity in combat or drink, on occasion. He utters a disbelieving chuckle to himself. _Maker, he was beginning to sound like his sister – maybe he was going crazy._ When he made to move towards the door to leave for the practice yard he only then noticed his steward had not left his study. Afraid to know the answer, Fergus asks, “Was there something else?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Lordship, they seemed insistent to speak with you at your earliest convenience… if you would be so gracious.” His steward seemed uncharacteristically nervous.

“Yes, of course… they’re waiting outside, aren’t they?”

“Indeed, Your Lordship.”

 _Blast it._ “Well, then. I suppose we shan’t keep them waiting any longer. See them in.” His steward bowed and exited the study without another word. My, but duty was a more possessive spouse than Oriana had ever been. With a defeated sigh, Fergus braced himself for what hopefully would not be the breed of sparring that he couldn’t meet with a sword. 

 

* * *

 

**9:24 Dragon**

_Andraste’s mercy, she is relentless!_ Fergus narrowly parries the strike Lethe sweeps at his legs. He uses his awkward sidestep as momentum to bring his shield arm around in a full orbit and slam into her side. An audible curse parts his lips as his shield swings unimpeded through the air.

“That heavy armor you fight in has slowed you, Fergus.” He hears his sister’s taunt from behind him.

“It has also kept me alive on more than one occasion,” Fergus grunts as he pivots, raising his shield in time to accept another dogged blow.

“I prefer to rely on speed,” she spurs, the hint of a joke in her eyes.

Fergus pushes her off, the surge of his refined muscles trouncing the incursion of her lean arms, causing Lethe to stumble backwards. He rushes towards her, seeking his advantage he thrusts his sword forward in a frenzy. Startled by his erratic offense, Lethe performs her pirouette a moment too late, snagging a bit of skin from her left forearm. “Not as dependable a thing to rely on as silverite, I’d say. One slip up and no more cheeky jests from you, dear sister.” The jab draws a single snarly chuckle from Lethe who is fingering her wound. Bringing her hand before her face, she inspects the light splatter of crimson. It is a shallow scratch; the bleeding has already stopped.

She looks up at Fergus, eyes glowering, a wolfish grin across her face, “More incentive to be quick, am I right?” She resumes their dance, blood-lust invigorating her step.

“What you are, is reckless,” he counters, unable to propel their banter further. Lethe’s assault is coming on faster and harder, it is consuming his concentration to stay on the defense.

“It’s part of my charm.” Lethe flashes her most brazen smirk. Frustrated, Fergus tries for a stab again, hoping the switch to offense throws her off as it did on his last attempt. This time, however, she capers to the side like his charge is nothing more than a merry jig. “How’d I know you were going to do that?” she teases, as she slaps him on the wrist with the flat of her blade.

Fergus has crossed swords with his little sister more than any other; she is accustomed to his movements, her blocks reflexive, he curses himself as he is incapable of knocking her off her guard. _It should work both ways, shouldn’t it?_ He lunges, sword aimed at her abdomen – she flits nimbly aside, grinning. _Damn her agility; or my predictability…_

As if sensing his vexation, Lethe professes with a snicker, “If it makes you feel better, no one lasts this long against me, typically.”

 _Why is she always smiling so pompously? It is bloody provocative._ Fergus puffs out a single affronted sneer. _Although it may very well be true, it is trash talk – cheap, crippling trash talk._ While he is wasting his attentiveness on brooding, Lethe cuts at his legs again, this time she counteracts, spins, and pulls up towards his chest –  thwacking his collarbone precisely with the flat of her blade. The tip of her practice sword is at his throat before he can recoil.

“Maker, you play dirty!” he gasps out once his thoughts have caught up to the play of events, rubbing his battered wrist. Lethe exhales a fervent guffaw.

“Since when is executing a labored expertise ‘playing dirty,’ dear brother?” She is smiling broadly – she is _mocking_ him; Lethe enjoys teasing far too much for his bruised ego’s satisfaction. However, the humor is infectious, undeterred by his sore muscles and pride, he chuckles as her admonishment continues, “While you’ve been preoccupied with that Antivan beauty of yours and dull protocol formalities, I’ve been busy diligently sharpening my real life survival skills. No one wants to sit through the grind, but they expect mastery to – out of the clear blue sky – come fortuitously rambling into their repertoire.” She shakes her head, the mirthful crack of a smile cushioning her contrarily reprehending rebuke. “Priorities, dear brother.”

“Yes, I apologize, I can scarcely fathom it myself why I have yet to abandon my poor, pregnant wife to devote myself thoroughly to the martial arts. My newfound purpose in life shall be to heroically defeat my meddlesome, _villainous_ little sister in a melee skirmish – duty and integrity be damned.” The siblings are each bent over, hands on their knees, eyes squinched shut – laughing candidly. The recent duel leaving them both winded (albeit, one of them more than the other), contending for air. Fergus missed _this_. He missed their relationship, their verbal bouts of wit, his sister’s sass and charisma. As the two have aged, their rapport has strengthened and he considers one season out of the year to spend with his little sister not adequate enough. Lethe finds her composure first, signaled by the forfeiture of an arduous sigh.

“Duty and integrity…” Lethe mutters, gaze abruptly solemn, face still etched with the levity of the passing repartee. “I’m getting dreadfully tired of figures of apparent authority spewing that manipulative spiel.” Her lips twitch at an ironic jerk of her tarrying smile. “I cannot help but wonder, is it merely a coincidence that the ‘decent’ thing to do coincides with the thing that is most profitable to them?” Her voice is coated with steel, the severity looming behind her eyes and tone dominating all else. There is no mistaking the displeasure hidden behind her grin.

Fergus closes the distance between the two of them, reaching to relieve Lethe of her weapon. She slackens her grip without pause; he replaces the swords in the holding rack before turning back to his sister, gesturing to the adjacent family gardens. Established alongside the practice yard, with the perpetual echoing of clashing metal, this particular garden was far from ideal for the idle strolling of casual tourists, and so, saw few visitors. As Fergus had anticipated – and hoped for – the gardens were uninhabited. He leads her down a brick path, lush with spring’s stifling floral offerings, over to a secluded stone bench, where they sit. Muffled by the neighboring pointed ringing emanating from the practice yard, Fergus feels certain they can have this conversation with some semblance of privacy.

“Either the party tonight has left you with a particular dread at how many clumsy dances you will be forced to partake in with Thomas Howe _or_ ,” pausing a bit to shoot Lethe a humored, knowing look. She rolls her eyes in response and he continues, “I take it Mother and Father persist in their posturing?” Lethe shrugs at his query, absentmindedly plucking at petals surrounding her feet. She silently indulges the thoughts in her head, eyes shrewd and searching. The early summer sun has yet to assent its slumber; warm, frantic rays clawing against banishment. Lethe’s fixed stare roams upward, towards the struggling horizon. The luminescence of the sunshine greets her open scrutiny. For a fleeting period of time, Fergus doubts whether she intends on answering his question. He can see the conflict within her, the light’s prodding exposing her personal battle, waged beneath her gaze. She notices his attentions and breaks contact with the illumination, diverting downwards, sheltering her secrets.

Her protective smile exhausts, expression relaxing. A compulsive grimace plucks at the susceptible face but Lethe refrains herself, visibly constraining her emotions, driving away the introspective debate contorting her features. The deceptive smile is back in place as she looks up to meet his eyes. _Behind those eyes is everything I will never understand._

“They seem torn,” Lethe begins, eyes drifting away from his, allowing herself a sigh before continuing. “They want me to be happy, leave me be to make my own choices, as best as I see fit. But then they insist the _best thing for me_ is this safe life as a noblewoman. You know, take a husband and give them grandbabies – live the role a daughter of a Fereldan Teyrn is supposed to. It’s almost like they feel I’m running out of time. I am young! I have plenty of time yet to make those decisions. I don’t want to grow up and hate the life I’m living because I made regrettable, ill-informed choices in my youth. I could be out exploring, running free!” She discards the argument with an aggravated huff, flinging a glare at the setting sun. Her eyes seem darker to Fergus upon close examination, even within the brilliance of the sun.

“The summers are suffocating,” Lethe grits out, her pupils a pained swirling storm of blackness and foreboding. “The entire season there’s this desperate bray at the back of my head, panicking, like a noose tightening around my chest making it hard to breathe. I don’t know what to do, Fergus. One of these years, I’m simply not going to be here and you will know it is because I’m done with the headache of it all.”

“Tell them, dear Lethe,” Fergus says softly, doing his best at sounding comforting. As does happen when people mature, the complexity of Lethe has expanded. The serene, jocose little sister now often times seemed weighted with troubles and skepticism. And the skill at which she skirted between facades was impressive, leaving Fergus frequently doubting how she ever truly felt – as was the case now. He wasn’t sure if he should approach her as the loving, supportive older brother or the affable friend quick to make light of a situation. Considering she was usually more receptive to the latter, he added with an unduly dramatic false veneration, “They have always let you do what you wanted in the past, _oh exalted Queen Lethe_ , how could they ever think of refusing you this time?” he finishes with a light chuckle and a beaming smile, clearly proud of his theatrics, tossing her a wink. She rewards him with the grin he was fishing for, giving him a dubious sideways stare.

“I know, I know, spoiled rotten, I am!” She sits and soaks in the moment, seeming content to end the conversation there. She peeks his way and he shoots her an inquiring look, raising both of his eyebrows. She releases a heavy sigh and speaks, just above a whisper, “They request so little of me, Fergus… I hate disappointing them. The hurt in their eyes is more damning than any raving speech they’ve ever spun. I can’t face them. _Why face any of this when I could be running free…”_ her last words ghosting from her lips like a broken promise into the wind. She looks to the horizon once more but the light is gone. All that remains are the blood streaks in the sky marking the suns inescapable defeat and descent into the unknown darkness. Fergus shivers as the foretelling breeze embraces them, capturing their exchange and taking it away to the heavens. When he looks back over at Lethe he is amazed to see she is smiling whimsically. She spots his gape – that he wasn’t aware of doing – and laughs. “What all of this should tell you is I really just like complaining,” waving her hand dismissively, “Perhaps I shall take a husband after all, just so I can nag him day after day regularly and he couldn’t elude me. That is what wives are for, is it not?” Lethe asks, her smirk blatantly daring. She laughs blithely, capricious as ever.

“You didn’t hear it from me, you saucy minx,” Fergus retorts, chuckling along with his sister.

“ _Saucy minx,”_ trying it out on her tongue, “I think I like that.” And just as easy as that, the facetious little jokester, full of her secrets, is back.

“Come, dear sister, we have a party to attend – lest you have forgotten – it would be awfully rude to disgruntle the Crown Prince. I believe you have promised him a dance, yes?” Fergus gets to his feet and offers Lethe his hand. She glances one last time over to the dark, devoid horizon and up to the pale moon. She closes her eyes, head still upturned, and he imagines she is hearing the very call of the Golden City. He holds his breath to listen, but all he hears is a distinct silence. No sword jangling from the practice yard nearby and definitely not the far-off whisperings of the Maker. Fergus releases the jagged breath he had been holding and feels a woozy giddiness engulf him. Lethe exhales a listless breath beside him and takes his arm, effectively grounding him.

“You know, when I agreed to that dance, I genuinely thought he meant sparring.” She perks up with an exaggerated mournful sigh, finishing with a smirk and a glimpse his way. Fergus chuckles softly and the two begin their navigation out of the gardens and into Castle Cousland – now bustling with activity in preparation for the coming event – without looking back. Hallways and passing rooms are well-lit for the occasion and make travel through the castle smooth. The siblings arrived at the living quarters quickly and without incident, given only courtesy greetings and nods. When at Lethe’s bedroom door, Fergus bows regally, rising to catch his sister’s endearing smile.

“It would please me, dear sister, if you would be so kind as to save a dance for me within the throng of the many noble suitors vying for your hand,” adding a touch of dramatic flair to his words. Lethe responds in kind, bringing a finger to her chin and scrunching her brows down. She begins humming a contemplative strum, making a show to be deep in thought.

“I’ll see what I can do, good ser. Alas, a couple of years back I made a promise to a very jealous mabari that he would be the only man I ever willingly took a dance with. I cannot be seen breaking significant commitments willy-nilly, now can I? It would damage my reputation as a noblewoman of Ferelden.” A smile tugging readily at the corner of her lips.

“Perhaps if I had a word with him personally, he could be reasoned with?” Fergus appeals.

“Approach him with cheese, that should do the trick.” Her unembellished response, shatters his veneer and has Fergus laughing explosively, smiling a toothy grin over at his sister.

“Yes, I suppose it would,” allowing the laughter to subside and gathering his poise. “Now if only that trick would work on Thomas.”

“How do you know until you try?” making an effort to feign innocence but promptly losing herself to a mischievous smirk. At his look of reproach Lethe rolls her eyes. She glances around them – checking. Noticing the hallway outside her chambers remains vacant, Lethe starts up again with a wily twinkle in her eye, “What do you suppose I’d have to approach Delilah with to persuade her into a dance?” wiggling her eyebrows shamelessly. Fergus scoffs incredulously, struck speechless by his sister’s flagrant remark and mannerisms.

“You—” Fergus stutters, at a complete loss of words. Lethe chuckles at his puzzlement.

“Saucy minx?” she offers, commending herself on his inability to articulate.

“Yes,” he agrees, chuckling, at last finding his words. How is it that Lethe still has the ability to take him by surprise, he wonders, smiling at the thought. Fergus gazes fondly down at his little sister and somehow he knows – between her large, expressive eyes, her playful grin, and her preposterous sense of humor – she would never have any trouble approaching anyone, man or woman, for a dance. He bristles suddenly, realizing what position that puts her in – what position that puts _him_ in. What types of – and how many – disreputable sorts would think of pursuing his little sister. _The gall of them, to think they could possibly be deserving! How infuriating!_ He thinks perhaps he has begun to actually fume based on the quizzical expression he is receiving from Lethe. “If you need help, I’ll be there…at your side… helping.” _Watching._ He manages to say, in a reasonably courteous voice, attempting to disguise his still seething apprehension.

“Oh, sorry, spot taken. Gabe’s already my wingman,” she responds, unceremoniously with a half shrug.

 _Bless the dog,_ relief washing over Fergus, _what misbegotten fool would endeavor to take advantage of a girl with a mabari war hound at her side_. His good nature gradually seeping back to him, he decides to goad his sister further. “ _Already_ your wingman, you say? I didn’t realize I had such a heartbreaker for a sister.” An unexpected blush graces Lethe’s cheeks, reminding him of the withdrawn budding girl she used to be and encouraging him to continue with a mock chiding, “Suddenly bashful, are we? _Tsk, tsk, tsk._ ” She slaps him faintly on the arm, hushing him fervidly. She checks the halls again, relaxing noticeably with the knowledge that no one has listened in on their babbling impropriety.

Lethe fixes him with a scowl, aiming to censor his presumptuous baiting with a biting emphasis, “No, don’t be ridiculous, Fergus.” Her stern glare does not have the desired effect; rather, quite the contrary, Fergus appears amused by her forbidding tone and hostile demeanor – smug little smile painting his features. He raises both of his eyebrows in silent inquiry. “Stop that! It’s not like that, it’s—” At his unabashed chuckling, Lethe’s visage collapses into an affronted lour. “Hey, I am a lady!” clutching her chest with an overdone flourish, “I—a daughter of Ferelden’s most respected Teyrn! I refuse to be treated thusly—I—how _dare_ you, Fergus Cousland!” she stammers, fumbling unsuccessfully for any remaining bit of dignity she might have. Fergus’ smile broadens, endlessly entertained by her poor performance. Eventually she sighs her defeat, peeking up at Fergus with a sheepish grin and a tenuous toss of her shoulders. Finally, Lethe whispers, “All right I kissed this friend of mine, _but Fergus, this is hardly the place for this gossip,_ ” hissing out the last portion of her admission, eyes scouring meticulously up and down the hallway.

Fergus eases off his prodding, clasping gingerly to his sister’s shoulder. He reassures Lethe with a tender squeeze and a dotting smile when she looks up hesitantly to meet his scrutiny. Keeping his eyes sharp, Fergus retains a cool and level lilt before asking, “Friend of yours, you say?” Lethe averts her eyes, slowly begrudging a nod. “So,” Fergus broaches carefully, “This is something… you wanted?” _Maker, aid him in putting this elegantly, “_ That is,” pitch delicate and low, “This was a mutual choice you consented with, yes?” _He will concern himself later with how exactly he will threaten the miscreant, depending on her answer._ Lethe snaps up to search his eyes, parting after a brief moment to nod profusely. “Good,” he exhales, unclenching his tightly clamped jaw, “ _Good.”_

Lethe shuffles her weight disconcertedly between her feet, monitoring the hallway situation with a visible agitation. _At this point, probably praying for a wayfarer to disrupt this uncomfortable investigation_ , Fergus muses, chuckling at the thought. Perplexed by his outburst, Lethe slips him a perturbed sideways glance, coaxing a brimming laugh from Fergus. “Oh, I am sorry, dear sister,” he draws Lethe in for an affectionate hug, “I didn’t intend for this to be so awkward for you.” Bursting out with another laugh at her indignant glare. “Well, I take it, in view of your wavering eloquence, Gabe – reliable wingman that I assume he is – assisted with the wooing?” Lethe scoffs at his jape, crossing her arms and throwing him another pointed glare.

“This chat is – _at long last_ – over, dear – _overbearing –_  brother. Also,” Lethe commands, wrinkling her nose, “You are in dire need of a bath, you stink,” she claims, at the end of her patience – exhaling an exasperated sigh that forms into a breathy chuckle at his offended pretense. “You are absolutely impossible, Fergus, you know that? You had your hide neatly handed to you – by me – on the practice yard this afternoon; do you truly think I cannot defend myself, if the need arises?”

“No, of course not. I believe you are gifted with the ability to succeed in doing anything – _or_ _anyone_ – you could ever want.” He flashes her a wink. Lethe rolls her eyes at his jest, wheeling around to open the door to her bedchambers and venture inward. She turns as she enters and Fergus executes a graceful bow. “That they will ever be deserving of you, now that is a different matter completely,” he declares, finishing on an earnest note.

“Well, Gabe seems to fancy her,” Lethe throws over her shoulder, nonchalant, moving to close the door between them.

 _Her? Saucy minx, indeed, little sister…_ “So long as she has Gabe’s approval.”

“I will see you again shortly, Fergus. Not a _word_ of this will be spoken at the party tonight, got it? Or you will find yourself in the breed of sparring that you can’t meet with a sword,” Lethe presses, squinting menacingly over at him.

Fergus chuckles quietly to himself, _tactfully put, sister, I’ll have to remember that one._ He places his right hand over his heart, reinstating his solemnity, “Naturally, Lethe, anything you ask.” Bowing his farewell, rotating while rising to cross the expanse of the hall to his room. He had a party to attend, after all. Oriana would have his head if he showed up caked in the lingering grime of an afternoon spent scuffling and smelling as he did now – for Lethe had not been joking about the stench.

“Hey, Fergus?” He halts his progression and turns to face the entreating voice of his sister, “Thank you.” Fergus nods at her words and returns her trusting smile with one of his own. She thereupon shuts the door, and he resumes his short walk across the way to his bedchambers.

 

* * *

 

**9:37 Dragon**

“No, I haven’t seen her in… Has it been that long? Six years, that sounds about right, I suppose. Well, she never was one to sit still. _Bryce Cousland's little spitfire_ , some people would kindly – and sometimes not-so-kindly – refer to her as.”

“Yes, I know.” Fergus is interrupted by Leliana, or so he believes he remembers her name to be. She hasn’t offered up any variety of formal greeting nor an acknowledgment of meeting him in the past. _On the whole, she hasn’t been an overly_ engaging _house guest,_ Fergus considers, _mostly just silently listening in – staring at him with those unsettling, impassive eyes. Then again, the other woman, Cassandra Pentaghast – who had, at the very least, had the good graces to introduce herself as such – wasn’t exactly_ easy _company_ , Fergus thinks to himself, searching for an accurate term to describe her. He glances skeptically between the two women sitting across the desk from him in his study. He stretches the muscles of his lower back, sitting up straighter. _Maker, he has been sitting in this chair for far too long._ A tenseness rests in his normally laid-back carriage; realizing now why his steward had been uncharacteristically nervous earlier, these two made an intimidating team.

“Yes, well,” Fergus clears his throat, delivering himself from his mulling, “Perhaps I shall have some tea brought in? Are either of you hungry, I could—” Cassandra produces a disgusted scoff, _interrupted for the second_ _time_ , Fergus notes.

“Teyrn Cousland, if we could skip the pleasantries, we have undergone a long journey to reach you here and would appreciate your collective assistance for this issue.”

 _Crusty,_ Fergus decides, _he would definitely describe her as crusty._ “Of course,” He collects himself with an expansive breath. “She wrote, when she could. Mostly of trivial matters – she would ask after Highever and her people, how they were accepting their new Teyrn – you know, pleasantries.” Internally praising himself at the roll of Cassandra’s eyes, clearing his throat again before continuing, “She never addressed anything of any consequence. In truth, the only snippets of any relevance that would reach my ears would be by rumor – and would always seem to revolve around trouble and mischief, might I add.” Permitting himself a nostalgic chuckle, _classic Lethe._ Fergus risks a glimpse up at Leliana, her furrowed brow deepening at his account – _more affected than she would admit, perhaps?_ He swallows his hesitance, mustering what courage he can, adding gently, “She would write of you,” asserting eye contact with Leliana, hoping his hunch had been correct, “Every now and again.” He pauses, assessing the accuracy of his presumption by Leliana’s reaction to his statement. Her emotionless expression reappears, a touch harder than before. _Surely a good sign,_ he decides. “You say she is missing, yes? You do not believe that perhaps she is simply on another one of those little crusades of hers? She has a habit of disappearing, you know. When was the last you have heard from her?” He is angling for answers of his own; were these women merely searching for a missing hero as they claimed, or were they hunting Lethe?

“It has been some time,” Leliana replies curtly, narrowing her eyes almost imperceptibly.

Fergus surveys Leliana as she speaks. He had been informed of the relationship shared between the woman and his sister. Lethe herself had presented Leliana to him, with love in her eyes – at the coronation celebration for the crowned monarch and debut of the newly named Hero of Ferelden who had vanquished the Fifth Blight – _my dear little sister, Lethe_. He wondered if Leliana comprehended the degree of which his sister had trusted him, the magnitude of faith she roused, or even the extent he knew of the two women’s affair. Leliana and his sister had been lovers, yes, but was she aware that his sister had told him of the following years? How they were happy for a time, until obligation split their paths. How Leliana’s duties had barred her from responding to Lethe’s letters; how much that had aggrieved Lethe? Did Leliana know he learned of these things? Did she care? If they thought he would forsake his sister’s mysteries so readily he suspected that perhaps they weren’t especially familiar with Lethe in the least, or the confidence she inspired. Perhaps they did not have Lethe’s best interest at heart – he _loved_ his sister and he would not betray her. Governing his building irritation, he spoke, “I am sorry to hear that. Ladies, what is it that I can do for you? I should still have the letters, if you’d like—”

“That will not be necessary, Teyrn Cousland,” Cassandra announced, Fergus chafing at his third interruption of the evening; _Maker, who taught these two manners?_ “We were hoping you could enlighten us on your shared childhood together,” Cassandra continues, oblivious to his annoyance. “We would like a clear understanding of who she was as a woman. Maybe then we could guess as to where she might venture to next. There is much we do not know.”

 _This is the sort of business the Divine concerns herself with? How curious,_ Fergus deems. “Very well, Lady Cassandra, but I must admit, there is much nobody knows – even I."

“Please, just Cassandra. Or Seeker, if you must stand on ceremony.” _Blessed Andraste_ , Fergus feels himself pale, the blood draining from his face. _Did she say_ _Seeker? As in The Seekers of Truth? Maker, Lethe, what have you gotten yourself into this time?_ “And although I have not met her personally, I have been briefed on her predilection for privacy.”

“I trust we have your full cooperation, Teyrn Cousland, yes?” Fergus looks over to Leliana at her interjection, fearing his evolving pallor has implicated his misgivings. Her icy gaze confirms his suspicion. Fergus had witnessed Lethe crumble certitude and obstruct careless words in a casual glance. He had seen shadows coil beneath her eyes and strike in a blink. It would take more than an inhospitable glare to shake his resolve.

“Yes. Of course,” his enunciation deliberately terse, “Nevertheless, you know – better than most, I would suspect – that Lethe has always harbored her secrets.” Leliana’s rancorous eyes darken at his snide response but she does not challenge him.

“Whatever you can impart would help. We are at your liberty,” Cassandra states, somehow remaining unconcerned – or clueless, Fergus speculates. He nods at her polite request, reclining into a pensive breath.

Fergus grants himself a generous exhale before speaking. “I will tell you want I can.” His acquiesce earning him an unexpected grin from Cassandra; he favors her with a melancholy one of his own. “Where to start? Let’s see, well, I think I’ll start with some tea, for this will be rather complicated, I think.” Fergus stands from his chair but motions for his guests to remain seated. He ambles to the door, opening it to find his steward dutifully stationed outside. Giving the signal for some tea to be brought in, Fergus leaves the door cracked and walks over to his study’s window, gazing out wistfully, inviting thoughts of the past. “Our family has always kept a lake estate on the southeastern shores of Lake Calenhad, near Lothering – I believe you are familiar with the town of Lothering, yes Leliana?” He doesn’t turn to see her confirmation, if she offers one. Fergus retreats to his memories, “Elite training grounds overlay our lands there. We kept – keep – an extra contingent of knights within; the men and woman who aspire for a more adept finesse are sent to the estate to endure rigorous discipline. Lethe was sent as a young girl once she showed an interest, and of course, an extraordinary capacity for instruction. That is where she spent nearly all of her time growing up, only returning to Highever in the summer for the season’s aristocratic circuit, much to her objection.” Fergus smiles at the recollection, “Mother had ever delighted in those etiquette classes.”

 “Your parents sent one of their children to live elsewhere at such a young age, how could they do that?” Fergus chuckles at Cassandra’s wide-eyed credulous, finding himself charmed by her empathy.

“You know, I asked the very same thing as a boy, and the only answer I received was this cryptic, ‘ _She was never ours to_ _hold onto,’_ nonsense,” quoting his parents with a mock prophetic austerity, laughing as Cassandra’s eyes widened even further. “I know; I never knew what to make of it. Mind you, I was still a child at the time. Although, thinking back on it now, I must admit it still seems like a purposely veiled and nonspecific thing to say, doesn’t it? I suppose it has something to do with Lethe being—” 

His steward knocks twice before entering the study with the tray of refreshments Fergus has been waiting on. The steward places it daintily on the desk, pouring tea into a cup and positioning it away from the two women near where Fergus had formerly been sitting. Fergus issues his gratitude and his steward bows at the dismissal, closing the door securely shut. Fergus approaches his desk and takes a seat, lifting the teacup to his lips. He inhales the aroma, letting the scent rejuvenate his tiring wits and diplomatic acumen.

“There is nothing quite so refreshing as a hot cup of tea.” With his spirits improving, Fergus settles a cozy smile across his features. Remembering his manners, he pours both of his guests a cup of tea, handing one to each. Leliana sips at hers and offers Fergus a grateful nod, which he accepts. Cassandra, however, stares indecisively down at her cup which is resting awkwardly in her hands. “Surely serving tea is a common enough practice all throughout Thedas, including Nevarra. Or am I incorrect in my assumption, Lady— Er, excuse me, Cassandra?” Fergus gambles at a jest – feeling bold, and is rewarded with a laugh.

“No, you are correct. You are also correct in guessing that I am Nevarran. I suppose the accent gave me away.”

“A rare accent to find in Ferelden,” he admits.

“Yes, well I would say that most southerners find the Nevarran accent _abrasive,”_ cutting a barbed glare over to Leliana, “Perhaps we do not feel welcome here.”

“I, personally, enjoy an exotic accent spoken elegantly from a beautiful woman,” bestowing her with the best half-bow he could manage from his seated position. When Fergus looks up he is greeted by the flush of rosiness blooming over Cassandra’s face. She makes an effort to conceal her blush with a swig from her teacup. He hears Leliana accentuate a pronounced clearing of her throat, seeking to bring them back to the business at hand.

“Ah, yes,” clearing his own throat and resituating in his chair, “Now where were we?” Fergus tries to recall where they had previously left off, “That’s right, Lethe.” He recites tales of her shenanigans at length – the silly pranks, the practical jokes, all for good fun or to inspire a smile. He provides some of their shared experiences, the sparring and the parties. The laughs, the flattery, the ideas she could spark. The daring adventures, risking her life – and more than once, his own – for the creation of a lasting memory, something to look back and hold on to in the future. All the friends who had hopelessly fallen for her because of her considerate gaze, quick wit, and sharp intellect. He explains her search for solace, her need to be alone, viewed remote; why for this very reason their father had acquired Gabe, the same reason she had always been beyond the bounds of possibility. The same reason he believed she would remain out of reach for as long as she desired. When at last his emotions were spent and the night halfway gone, Fergus ended his narrative.

“And then one day she was gone. She passed through the woods one late spring afternoon with her mabari at her side and never returned to the lake estate. She didn’t arrive that summer at Highever for the summer circuit, either. It was five or six years until I saw Lethe again, at that point, suddenly an unapproachable and mature young woman. We haven’t spoken much on what happened in those removed years. She has regaled me with captivating stories of some of the colorful trysts and humorous mishaps while out traveling alone, however, it was clear most of what she experienced was an exacting journey of discovering herself. I had no right to demand those details.” Fergus pauses to rub his eyes, desirous of the rest they have been too long-denied. “I wish I could tell you more, but as I mentioned, Lethe made a habit of wandering off alone. Honestly, for all we knew she may have simply wished to climb the trees in the enveloping wilds.  We surmised she may have ventured to settlements that were close by the lake estate – Lothering in particular after this one odd sort of man came asking after Lethe, rattling on about poison for his beasties, whatever he meant by that. And on another occasion, a kind older woman – also hailing from Lothering – brought a bread basket to the estate to thank Lethe for, well, something… She never offered up any details on either event. Many signs indicate Lothering for the answers you seek. Maybe asking around the area could provide for you the clues I could not, it’s a long shot, I know, but I am afraid there is nothing more I can tell you.” It was out of his hands now; he had faith that if Lethe did not want to be found, she would not be.

“It is something. More than we had before, for sure. I believe I know the man you spoke of, maybe even the woman. Lothering has been abandoned since efforts to rebuild after the Blight’s devastation proved futile, but perhaps…” Leliana trails off in a hoarse whisper, appearing shaken, her eyes suspiciously glossy.

 “As long as your offer of hospitality still stands, Teyrn Cousland,” at his nod Cassandra continues, “We would wish to stay the night. We have taken up enough of your time with this matter and you have been a great help. In the morning we ride for Lothering.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yeah, background bits and information. This last section of the chapter with Fergus, Cassandra, and Leliana was originally going to be the opening; but then I decided I’d rather have readers come to their own understanding of Fergus and Lethe’s relationship instead of just being like, “Fergus will protect her secrets because he loves her!” And you guys just being like, yeah okay I guess so. Alas, I got a tad bit carried away and here we are 8,000 words later. Also, the parallel timelines layout will be a prevalent way of revealing information about Lethe and all her glorious mystery. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to shoot them my way. Comments are always read and appreciated.


	3. Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lethe and Leliana's first encounter. Love at first sight? Mmm, hardly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Took some of the game’s dialogue and put my own little spin/interpretation on what is said. Ergo, belongs to (disclaimer) Bioware. Let the flirt-fest begin!

**9:30 Dragon**

_My hand brushes against hers as I move to stand beside her in the fray. They are surprisingly cool – her hands – and soft, not the rough or callused feel I would have expected of a warrior familiarized with a sword._

“A woman by my description, you say? Don’t you know all the ladies are going blonde this season? Very popular— Oh… or I suppose you wouldn’t, would you? In order to know that, you’d have to first remove your head from within Loghain’s ass,” the woman jeers, with a smirk on her face but animosity in her eyes.

“I served at Ostagar, where the teyrn saved us from the Grey Wardens’ treachery! I serve him gladly! Enough talk. Take the warden into custody. Kill the sister and anyone else who gets in your way,” the leader of Loghain’s men instructs.

 As the fight commences it becomes evident that this lithe young woman is more than just familiar with a sword. She swats away each of the three blades initiating their onslaught, the massive dog at her side overwhelming one of the men and dragging him down to the ground, ripping open his throat. The unhelmed golden woman ducks under an arrow that is fired in her direction, Leliana moves to eliminate the archer. The woman's other two companions – a heavily armored young man and a scarcely dressed dark-haired young woman – hasten to join. The young man takes up a defensive position in front, smashing the leader of Loghain’s men forward with his shield, protecting the blonde woman’s flank. As Leliana removes her dagger from the archer’s neck a projectile of cold air whisks by her – the dark-haired young woman clutches the second archer within an icy grasp, freezing him solid; _a mage, then._ A moment later, the blonde shatters him into a million little pieces. Leliana glances over and sees the headless body of the man the woman was previously engaging; _quick work -_ Leliana thinks. The only man left breathing is the leader, trembling on the floor beneath the tip of the young man’s sword.

“All right, you’ve won! I surrender!” The young blonde woman glowers over at the shaking man as he squeals. She doesn’t speak as she strides over to him, a disbelieving huff leaving the curl of her lips. She stands over him – sword held erect, fresh blood trickling down her blade, hate leaping from her steady gaze. “Please, wait—” he shrieks, Leliana moves to stand between them, intending to intercede on his behalf, but she cuts the both of them off.

“Look, I don’t care. Just… Leave.” She sighs as she turns away from him, uninterested in his or Leliana's own pleas, procuring a handkerchief from a pocket of her leather breeches.

“Y- yes! Thank you, thank yo—”

“Leave,” she commands in a blasé manner, not bothering to look back his way – eyes locked on the meticulous detailing of wiping her sword, “As in – start running.” He stumbles up to his feet and hurriedly races out the door of the tavern without muttering another word.

“That was a nice thing you did,” Leliana chimes in, addressing the young woman who is by all appearances the leader of their little entourage, “I am glad you found it in your heart to offer that man mercy. It was… unexpected. Thank you.”

“Unexpected, why? Because I’m not dressed in ugly, billowing pink robes?” She doesn’t look up from cleaning her blade as she drawls, not that Leliana would know what to say to that. When she appears satisfied with her efforts, she places the pristine sword back in its sheath and faces her young male companion. “Sell whatever we don’t absolutely need, I’d prefer to travel as light as we can manage. Also, could you see if he stocks any lyrium dust for me?” He nods at her request and she continues, “Thanks, I’ll be outside, I think I saw some deathroot around back.” She half pivots before remembering something else to add, “Oh and hey,” lowering her voice to a whisper, “Try to disclaim the Grey Warden rumors as best you can.” He nods again, resolute. He spins on his heels, his hulking armor knocking into a nearby chair before approaching Old Barlin. “ _Discretely_ ,” she calls after him with emphasis.

He answers with a blush and a soft, embarrassed chuckle, “Of course, sorry.”

The woman and her dog maneuver towards the exit, the other woman – the mage – saunters in pace beside her, earning herself a sideways glance, “Yes, Morrigan?”

“Well you should hardly expect me to wait in here with Alistair, he is more dim-witted than the dog. Smells worse, as well,” wrinkling her nose in disdain. A sad whine can be heard from the pouting maw of the dog. The yet unnamed woman chuckles at the mage’s derisive retort, shaking her head slightly. The two women and the dog head for the door. Leliana bolsters her determination and springs in step beside them.

“Are we getting a move on? Good plan. Where will we be heading then?”

 _She meets my eyes and there is a silence, a calm. Heat collects in my chest; she could be that woman…_

* * *

 

**9:37 Dragon**

Leliana feels her heart lurch in her chest _; don’t think about the past, don’t lose sight of your mission.  You’re the Left Hand of the Divine now… don’t remember that throb of bliss, that pang of want._

Sometimes, Leliana would find herself reminiscing of the past, thinking of what might have been, wishing things had been different. However, reality always found a way of rearing its way into her fanciful dreaming. Her visits into the past could never soothe the ache she felt as the existence of the present set back into her awareness.

 _She is gone – you’re alone. Why must you do this to yourself? This wishing only ever hurts you. Focus, Leliana._ She took a deep breath to stable herself. _Focus – the rhythmic trot of the horse, the clinging humidity of northern Ferelden, the rigid figure of a woman ahead. The hollowness griping at her chest. All of these are real – here – now. Focus, Leliana. You’re not that same hopeful chantry sister anymore. You are the Left Hand of the Divine on a mission to find a fugitive woman. And you will find her because you are good at what you do. Focus._

Last Leliana had heard, most of the Lothering refugees had fled to the village of Redcliffe during the blight for safe harbor. When Lothering’s land proved uninhabitable, ruined by the ravages of the blight, many who resided in Redcliffe chose to settle there for good, calling it home. Leliana knew Elder Miriam to be among those numbered there. Back when Leliana had been living in Lothering, Miriam had made Lothering’s business, her business. She found out much of what went on around town by treating the sick, providing beds for those who had none, greeting visitors and answering their questions. Perhaps Miriam could answer some of the questions that Leliana herself had, once the two hands of the Divine arrived in Redcliffe.

* * *

 

**9:30 Dragon**

“Oh, am I getting ahead of myself? So sorry. Let me introduce myself. I am Leliana, one of the lay sisters of the chantry here in Lothering. Or I was.” There is an almost painful interval of suspension as Leliana awaits her response, both women’s faces vacant and inscrutable. They look to each other, a lapse of confusion passing over their expressions. The blonde woman looks back over to Leliana, appearing to decide to ignore Leliana’s introduction, slowly drifting her gaze towards the exit. Before she has completely extracted her eyes, Leliana chances a coy smile of invitation.

The woman’s eyes grow suspicious, a curious glint mounting within them as she studies Leliana in obstinate silence. Leliana sees it, the shift behind her eyes, but as she peers into them, the mage beside her – Morrigan – scoffs. Leliana looks over to Morrigan at the noise, whose odd amber eyes radiate nothing but scorn, she however refrains from commenting.

“Your robes gave you away,” the other woman says, pulling Leliana’s contemplation back to her.

“Excuse me?” Leliana asks, taken more so by surprise at the input than actually missing what was said. It is the first sentence that she has spoken directly to Leliana. Her undivided attention, accompanied by the unflinching surveillance of her eyes and the silvery melodious cadence of her voice, find Leliana somehow distracted.

“What, is it a tithe you’re after? I didn’t realize the Chantry enlisted goons to solicit funds for them through combat now-a-days. Although, I suppose it’s better than swindling the poor, simple folk with guilt and empty promises and saying it is the _Maker’s will_ ,” she adds, with a blithe smile – even though her words are most definitely purposely hateful, Leliana judges – glancing over to Morrigan, who appears increasingly agitated with the whole scene. “Look, I don’t have any coin. Badger that man over there that was just with us, he has the purse. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Those men said you were Grey Wardens,” Leliana interrupts; _Focus Leliana, don’t let her get away._ “You will be battling the darkspawn, yes? That is what Grey Wardens do? I heard about Ostagar, I know after what happened, you’ll need all the help you can get.” She has both women’s regard, feeling suddenly self-conscious and rather exposed. _They are listening, this is what you wanted, yes? Have faith; this is truly the Maker’s will, no convenient pretense._ _“_ That’s why I’m coming along.” The young leader’s brows shoot up, however, other than that she gives Leliana the impression she is unimpressed. The mage offers a drawn-out, heavily caustic sigh but otherwise elects to remain silent.

“Nope. Nuh-uh, not a Grey Warden,” a deep, contrived frown etching her face, “Bandit, actually. One might say highwaywoman, even – Grey Warden though? No,” the blonde conveys with a misleading vivacity.

“But…” Leliana begins, before picking up on the farcical lie, “Oh, I see. Of course. Shall we move on, my completely ordinary and unremarkable friend?”

Her jaw clenches immediately, “First of all, you don’t need to lie – there is nothing _unremarkable_ about these golden waves, I mean, have you seen them?” gesturing to her hair. “And second,” winsome charm evaporating into a fearsome scowl, “ _I am not your friend, sister.”_ Songful resonance giving way to a growl, “I am no friend of the Chantry.”

Leliana was afraid she might say that, she was prepared, “The Maker told me to go with you,” she responded automatically. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing to blurt out to these two imposing young women, but it had been the truth. “I- I know that sounds… absolutely insane—but it’s true! I had a dream… a vision! What you do, what you are _meant_ to do is the Maker’s work. Let me help!” Leliana feels her confidence renew at her words. She knew what she believed. She knew she could help and she knew this young woman was one of the Maker’s most needed instruments in the coming Blight, she had seen it. Two attractive young women glaring daggers at her conviction could hardly compare to the favor of the Maker himself. Additionally, she had been met with enough aversion and ridicule at the testimony of her Maker-sent vision by the other members of the chantry in the last couple of weeks to harden herself against any offered now.

“Oh, the Maker told you to, did he?” Leliana’s poise shrinking reflexively from the force of the woman’s deadened, biting words even with the support of her steadfast belief. “What else did he tell you to do? Use his name to gain power and riches? Subjugate the mages? Condemn the doubters? Perhaps smite the homosexuals?” Smiling at the addition of the last one, she continues, tone softening, “Look, maybe what I’m doing is indeed the Maker’s work, whatever, oops accident. I’m going to need more than a chantry sister standing behind me saying: _you’re in my prayers._ ”

She attempts to leave the tavern once more, turning her back to Leliana.

“ _Lay sister_ ,” Leliana asserts with enough sonority to catch the departing woman’s attention, stopping her in her tracks; _please, just listen to me. I want to help. I want to help **you**_. Many innocents had been unintentionally scorned or exploited by the Chantry, Leliana knew the organization wasn’t perfect. But she also knew the good it could bring, the hope, the deliverance. Leliana herself had expressed feeling betrayed by the Maker in the past, when she was younger and in a world of trouble of her own; she could recognize the buried hurt in the woman before her, she knew she could help her if she was given the chance. “And I wasn’t always with the Chantry. I can fight. I can more than fight. I put aside that life when I came here, but now… if it is the Maker’s will, I will take it up again. Gladly. Please let me help you.”

The woman releases a weary sigh. Without turning around to face Leliana she says, “Help the people here. _I don’t care._ And I don’t want to argue.”

“Then what?” Leliana’s frustration at the woman’s stubbornness seeping into her inflection, “What happens when the horde comes? It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed.”

“Then don’t stop running!” spinning around in a furor to look at Leliana, but at once deflating with a shrug, “It always works for me…” Leliana opens her mouth to dispute another protest but is interrupted by the young woman, “Damn, you’re not used to being told _no,_ are you?”

 _Well, no reason to be so ornery;_ Leliana thinks, a little offended. “I—”

 _“No._ ”

The young man from earlier strolls up, joining the conversation, “Haven’t made it very far, have you? Or are you back already?” A baffled expression crossing his features. “Here, three pinches of lyrium dust, it’s all he had. Didn’t appear he even knew what it was, really. One of the downsides to restocking in a small town, I guess. What do you need it for, anyway? You’re not a mage.”

“Potions.” Tucking the three small sacs into a pouch at her belt.

“Oh, also I did mention to him that I heard the Grey Wardens fought bravely and honorably at Ostagar but that we were definitely not Grey Wardens in the slightest. I’m pretty sure he believed me.”

She sighs, bringing her hand to her head to massage her temple, shaking it slightly, “We should go, come on. We’re done here.”

Seeming temperate, if defeated, Leliana risks laying a gentle hand upon her forearm, “Think about it, please. That is all I ask.”

Retracting at the first touch, she rotates strutting towards the door.

“No.”

And then she was gone, her companions following her out.

* * *

 

"I still think that Arl Eamon is our best bet for help. We might even want to go to him first."

“Alistair, why are you leaving it up to me? I still don’t even understand why we’re called the _Grey_ Wardens. Why not the Black Wardens, you know, like the taint. Or the Red Wardens, like blood or something.” She pauses a moment to consider, “No, you’re right, grey just sounds better. More ominous.”

“Yes, this is all just one big joke to you two, isn’t it? I don’t know why I am surprised, 'tis only the fate of all of Thedas that rests on your floundering shoulders. _Really_ , we have nothing to worry about,” Morrigan expresses, laden with sarcasm, arms crossed in contempt.

“Well, I don’t know where we should go,” Alistair admits defensively, ignoring Morrigan’s remark, “I’ll do whatever you decide, Lethe.”

“Now _that_ is unsurprising.”

“Morrigan,” Lethe cautions reproachfully, causing the mage to roll her eyes with a huff. “Come on, let’s get going. I’d like to be out of here with daylight to spare.”

“Then you have a plan?” Alistair asks.

"We can go to Redcliffe, that’s fine – I don’t really care. I'll meet you guys at the tavern, there's something I want to check on real quick, while we’re in Lothering."

"You sure you don't want us coming with you? What if you come across more highwaymen?"

"I'm sure I'll be able to talk myself out of it, Alistair, like I did with those last thugs. And if not, well, I'll always have my trusty war hound at my side." Smiling down affectionately at Gabe’s verifying bark.

"Oh, splendid,” Morrigan sulks, “I suppose that leaves me in the company of this imbecile. Do hurry with your business, if you hold any concern for your fellow warden. ‘Twould be most unfortunate if you were to, upon return, find him a toad."

“Yes,” Alistair gulps, “Please hurry, I second that.”

"I’ll be as brief as I can,” Lethe says, gazing off into the distance, taking on an authoritative air and speaking with an assertive confidence. “Also, you two should see if there are any basic tasks on the town's chanter's board, we could use some easy money. Nothing too _good samaritan-y,_ preferably," closing her eyes, rubbing her thumb along the bone of her left brow, "I have too much of a headache to deal with that right now."

"Your headache is back?" Alistair asks with true concern.

"I think it is simply the brightness of the sun out here in the open. It wasn't nearly so obtruding traveling out of the Wilds." She offers Alistair a sweet smile, "Don't worry about it, I'm all right.” She claps Alistair on the shoulder, nodding him a silent farewell before flitting away towards the western outskirts of town. Once a short stretch away, she calls back over her shoulder, “Oh, and I know the concept is lost on you two, but please, _try_ to be inconspicuous."

"I am not a child, do not patronize me," Morrigan scoffs before she is out of ear-shot. Lethe can be seen smiling to herself as she turns and sprints briskly away.

* * *

 

"Kill some bears or kill some bandits?” Alistair asks, glancing over to Morrigan… _Who is not even pretending to listen to me._ He sighs, _“_ You're right, why pick?" After perusing the board, Alistair begins walking towards the chantry.

"We have no reason to go in _there._ "

"What the chantry? Of course we do,” Alistair says, “That Redcliffe templar we found dead on the highway – Ser Henric – his note says there is a Ser Donall awaiting his report. I think it is the very least we could do to inform him of his comrade's death. And since we are heading to Redcliffe next, it wouldn't hurt to hear the state of things there. If you’re worried about, you know – being an apostate, you can just wait out here until I am done."

“Do not be ridiculous,” she scoffs, “We will go inside, speak with your precious templar, and gather whatever information we can.” Marching off for the chantry, ahead of Alistair, “But we will _not_ linger.”

“Riiight. Don’t mind me, I’m right behind you… _Hurry up, Lethe,_ ” Alistair mutters to himself, straggling behind Morrigan through the large double doors.

The first thing he noticed was just how packed the chantry actually was. Pews had been strewn about the hall, books lay randomly all over the floor; _that templar wasn’t lying when he said there simply wasn’t room for any more refugees…_ The second thing he noticed, was the state they were all in. Destitute, crying – most of them; others frantically praying – rocking back and forth. _Maker, these poor people. They’ve just lost their king and now their home is being threatened by an evading horde of evil. This is the Blight;_ Alistair understands in that moment. _This is what he has sworn to defend. Their Bann has forsaken them, families are left at the mercy of highwaymen, children are left orphaned, fleeing for their lives. The Grey Wardens are the peoples’ only hope. And there are only two of them left in all of Ferelden – a cynical young woman, who only became a warden half a fortnight ago, whom he found overall completely unpredictable and… him. Maker, what was he going to do, he was no leader…_

Even Morrigan has the decency to refrain from sneering, or perhaps she is simply more apprehensive of the assemblage of templars than she would like to admit. Either way, Alistair is grateful. He clears his throat, hoping to clear his thoughts as well, looking around for the Redcliffe templar.

When he identifies Ser Donall, Alistair offers him the locket of his slain colleague – extending his condolences and asks after the state of things in Redcliffe. In the ensuing conversation, Alistair learns the arl of Redcliffe has fallen into a coma – he may even be dead by now. All of the knights of Redcliffe are scattered around Ferelden, attempting to uncover the lost location of the fabled Urn of Sacred Ashes. It all just seemed so unreal… _Arl_ _Eamon is deathly ill, possibly dying. No cure has been found, Andraste’s ashes… This can’t be happening. Eamon- Eamon has to help him, he can’t be in a coma, he needs him to help him! And Andraste’s ashes? Those are a myth!_

Alistair scuttles around, browsing the selves of the chantry aimlessly, skimming the books piled on the floor. Ser Donall had said that Lothering’s chantry library featured a notable anthology of the lore on Andraste, that’s what he said he was doing here.

He picks up a book from the ground, “The first Blight…” Alistair begins flipping through the pages, “No, that’s my reality right now… don’t need any more doom and gloom in my life.” Placing it back in exchange for another, “The Black Fox…” Taking the time to read the short manuscript text, “Hmm, that’s actually pretty interesting, a noble vigilante – sounds kind of like Lethe… But, irrelevant.” He tucks the vellum away, moving on towards the back room bookshelves, “The Imperial Chantry… nope, boring.” _Maker, why would anyone own so many books?_ When at last Alistair has located the set of codices written by Brother Genitivi detailing Harvard the Aegis and his part in the gathering of the earthly remains of Andraste, he rolls the scrolls up, neatly slipping them into his satchel.

Becoming aware of how much time he has squandered in the library, Alistair searches for Morrigan’s dark, dour figure in the crowd of people – spotting her scowling in the corner – o _f course,_ he thinks, making his way over to her. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s get to the tavern – I’m sure Lethe has been waiting on us; I didn’t realize how long I had taken. We need to tell her about Arl Eamon, we need to get to Redcliffe.”

“One would think that – given the recent news of your ailing nobleman – travel to Redcliffe would seem rather unnecessary, would you not agree?”

“We should see what’s happening over at Redcliffe for ourselves. I believe that now more than ever. Come on, let’s see what Lethe decides.” The pair exit the chantry, navigating the small courtyard, taking a right to cross north over the short bridge.

“I have a wonder, Alistair, if you will indulge me,” Morrigan says, breaking the preferable silence that they walked in.

 _Why is she always prodding me? Why does she never harass Lethe like this?_ He suffers through dodging the remainder of her snarky instigating with gruff counter-questions of his own until they enter Dane’s Refuge and he capitulates, not wishing to bicker about it anymore, “What do you want to hear? That I prefer to follow? I do.”

A smug smirk of victory cutting across her face, “You sound so very—”

“Uh-oh, Loghain’s men. Five of them,” he whispers, putting a halt to her gloating. “I don’t see Lethe; you don’t think—?”

“No,” Morrigan snaps, her face suddenly growing serious. “You think these buffoons capable of felling our mighty hero? 'Tis more likely that she has simply not arrived yet.”

“But with her recurrent headache… and she was so weak when she woke up after Ostagar, after she— after that arrow she took…” trailing off, staring down with a look of remorse.

“Quit fretting like a skittish schoolgirl over her, 'tis most vexing. She is on her way over to us as we speak, of this, I am certain.”

“How could you—no, you’re right, of course you’re right. Let’s just sit over there – in the corner, and wait for her. We should be able to see when she comes in while also staying out of view of Loghain’s men.”

And Morrigan had been right. _Of course,_ he thinks. Shortly after seating themselves, Lethe thrust open the door, trudging inside with little subtlety. She looks completely out of place, a wide range of emotions coursing throughout her large, expressive eyes in a flux – pain, confusion, anguish, anger, but most prominently – fear. And she is covered in blood. _Please not be her own;_  worry washing over Alistair.

He stands, waving over in her direction, intending to signal her over to their obscure corner table. But she doesn’t see him, she is boring an unwavering glare at one of Loghain’s men – the one walking towards her.

“Well… Look what we have here, men,” the approaching man, evidently the leader, announces with two men trailing behind him. Lethe remains silent, her withering stare saying enough.

“Didn’t we spend all morning asking about a woman by this very description? And everyone said they hadn’t seen her?” one of the men asks. Alistair can see Lethe’s frown slowly rise into a ferocious smirk.

“Gentlemen, surely there is no need for trouble…”

“Fantastic,” Morrigan sighs beside him, “A meddlesome chantry sister – the one thing Lethe abhors more than anything else. How does the Chantry always manage to insert itself into the affairs of others? Come. Let us assist before she loses control of herself and slaughters everyone within sight.”

“Right.” He arms himself when he sees Loghain’s men fling themselves at Lethe, dashing as fast as his legs can take him, ready to shield her from harm.

* * *

 

Alistair examines Lethe as she crouches in the field outside of Dane’s Refuge, carefully plucking at the purple flowers and thin stalks of surrounding deathroot plants – noticing she doesn’t have her helmet on anymore. Even if the fight with Loghain’s men had gone well, he was still worried about her.  After seeing her enter the tavern covered in blood, visibly shaken with an odd expression on her face, he wasn’t sure what to expect. It doesn’t seem like any – or at least most – of the blood was her own, which is good, he supposes… Still… He found it hard to believe she was so composed right now, frolicking through a field, picking flowers like she hasn’t a care in the world. She certainly hadn’t treated the chantry sister a little bit ago with the same delicacy she showed these flowers right now. He thought it likely she wouldn’t wittingly volunteer much information, but he figures he’ll strike up the conversation anyway. _You never know, right?_

“So, what happened to your helmet?” he asks.

“What?” Appearing for a moment to consider his question extraneous or ridiculous before recollection flashes across her face. She answers with a soft chuckle, “Oh, it became too much of a hindrance,” she states matter-of-factly, “I’ve never been able to get used to the face pieces, or well, armor in general, really. Some of us are tanks, Alistair,” glancing up to him with a radiant grin, “And some of us like to live on the edge, take a few risks.”

It was true, she didn’t wear much when it came to armor. In fact, she equipped far more weapons on her person than she did protection. Since Alistair had first met her, she had clad herself in a lightweight leather vest, well-tailored knee-high boots, and clinging, flexible leather breeches. A netted quiver fastened onto her outer right thigh, boasting five arrows, and a potions pouch had been tied around her left thigh, resting securely in the front. The only actual armor she utilized other than the bevor along the top of her vest, was on her left side – for mobility, she had said. A spiky metal pauldron had been harnessed around her chest and back, attaching to the bevor and settling over her left shoulder. She sported a greave and a tapered point sabaton upon her left leg, covering the fine boot. And where she wore but a leather bracer on her right forearm, she donned a heavy gauntlet over her left hand.

He didn’t know what she planned to do if she was ever incessantly assaulted from the right. Well, that’s not true – he had seen it happen. At the battle of Ostagar. No matter how many darkspawn charged, encircling their prey – attacks threatening from all sides – her intimidating arsenal of weaponry always seemed to be anticipating and prepared.

She kept a short bow slung over her torso, a clasp of her pauldron harness clamping the limb in place on her back. He had seen her use it some, firing upon assailing enemies from a distance and simply to hunt small game through the Wilds – she was a good shot. She was a good _warrior_. All his talk of being the tank – the defender –  and it was Lethe who has supported him through this last week. Boldly tearing headlong into the chaos of battle beside him, or more likely ahead of him – _she was as bloody fast as she claimed to be –_ having his back, taking arrows for him… Alistair looks away from her, flinching with guilt. She has been kinder with him than he would have expected, than she should have been, he believes. Lethe could be haughty at times, harsh even, especially with strangers she deemed overly friendly. In general, she was suspicious of _nice_ in any form, which gave her an overall unapproachable demeanor. However, despite this, she hasn’t once berated him for his foolishness or shown a shortness of patience with him – even supporting him when Morrigan belittles him.

He glances back over to Lethe, who is stuffing herbs into a pocket sewn into the back of her breeches. A longer than average length sword – but by no means a greatsword – was strapped on the left side of the thick belt buckled around her waist – her most frequently brandished weapon. Three small throwing knives, that he hadn’t witnessed her put to use yet, were tucked behind her sword. Along the right side of her belt, she bound two completely diverse daggers – one a sturdy, straight bladed dagger for off-hand guards – which he had seen her make use of exclusively at Ostagar. In every other battle she seemed to prefer to wield solely her sword, focusing on its precise application for both offense and defense – although, he wasn’t entirely positive Lethe knew what a defense was. The second dagger was a viciously jagged duel-blade, the purpose of which could only be sinister. Alistair had seen her employ its bloody handiwork while sneaking through the Kocari Wilds, assassinating the unsuspecting stragglers, allowing Alistair to creep by undetected. She won’t be able to accomplish such feats much longer; he expects the darkspawn will begin to sense her soon, as well.

Morrigan huffs behind him, making some acerbic comment or another that Lethe beams at – Alistair doesn’t care to listen to what Morrigan says – he would rather watch Lethe smile. He was always amazed to see her like this.

“Oh, come on Morrigan, admit it!” Lethe chuckles, “You find it endearing—”

“Shok ebasit hissra…” She is cut off by a deep, guttural rumbling.

“Did you guys hear that?” Lethe says, dropping her previous statement to look around her for the source.

“What language was that?” Alistair asks, whatever it was it sounded like it was coming from the northwest. Lethe’s gaze settles on a lone prisoner in a cage just outside town.

“Anaan esaam. Qun.”

As they approach the cage, Alistair is alarmed by how _colossal_ this man is. Well, if he is a man… there is something almost inhuman—

“This is a Qunari,” Morrigan announces, “A proud and powerful creature.”

_Well that answers that question._

“Yes, but what is a qunari doing locked in a cage in a small merchant’s town?” Lethe asks herself, leery. Leaving her companions to move closer to the cage and address the qunari, “Are you part of someone’s wares? _Despicable_ ,” she spits out. “Who put you here?”

“I was placed here by the Chantry,” the qunari answers Lethe easily, fixing her with a level appraisal.

“And now trapped as prey for darkspawn,” Morrigan shouts over to Lethe, “If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy’s sake alone.”

“Mercy?” Alistair gawks, “I wouldn’t have expected that from you.”

“Guys,” Lethe whips around to face him and Morrigan, “Could you not right now?” Quietening them, she turns back to continue her interrogation of the qunari, “And just what are you doing in there?”

“I have been convicted of murder. Have the villagers not spoken of this.”

“Not to me,” she answers, “Did you do it?”

“The people of a farmhold are dead. Eight humans, in addition to the children. However I feel, whatever I’ve done, my life is forfeit now.” She evaluates the delivery of his confession and his choice of words in silence for a brief period of time before speaking again.

“Very well, if that is how you feel. I’ll leave you alone, then.” She nods a respectable farewell and rejoins her companions a short distance away.

“A penitent man left to be torn to pieces by darkspawn, 'tis a fine example of the Chantry’s mercy, is it not?”

“He says he murdered a good bit of people, Morrigan. What do you want me to do? Make him a Grey Warden? I can’t do that; I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to be a Grey Warden to kill darkspawn. I have proven that sufficiently, I should think. Besides, he seeks his atonement – an admirable enough goal, I say – would you deny him that?”

Lethe considers Morrigan’s appeal, wiping a hand down over her face, bringing it back up to knead into her hairline.

“Who’s to say he won’t _murder_ us next?” Alistair counters, stating his objection.

“I’ll watch him,” Lethe decides with a weighty sigh, “I’m sorry Alistair, but this one goes to Morrigan.” She ventures back over to the qunari prisoner, exchanging a few words with him. After a nod, Lethe pulls out a set of tools from her belt and removes the lock of his cage. She returns to her companions, qunari in tow.

 “Well, everyone, this is Sten,” Lethe gestures to the towering qunari. Sten says nothing, even his frightening gaze remains fixed upon nothing in particular. “Of the Beresaad,” Lethe continues, perhaps expecting a response. Neither Alistair nor Morrigan appear to know the proper way to welcome the qunari and so settle for gaping dumbly. Lethe clears her throat, “As in, the vanguard of the qunari people.” If she thought that would mitigate the awkward silence, she was wrong. Giving up with a sigh, Lethe says, “Well in any case, he should be a useful combatant to have on our side. Anyway, who’s ready to chase off some bears?”

The group sets off further into the lands surrounding Lothering, in hopes of scaring away the wildlife that has been threatening the townspeople and killing refugees. The bears proved to be just as aggressive as the chanter’s board had implied, forcing the party to put them down. Bandits that gathered around the outskirts appeared even more unwilling to see reason than the bears, attacking the group on sight. At least the bandits had carried suitable armor and a decent greatsword for Sten to use, for he couldn’t very well travel along with them in prisoner’s clothes much longer and remain useful.

And then there had been the spiders. _Who knew spiders could grow as large as bears… and were so sticky!_ Lethe, however, seemed positively beside herself upon the discovery of the toxin extract they possessed and insisted on collecting it all. Once they had returned to the chanter’s board to acquire their compensation, the group began their trek out of Lothering towards Redcliffe.

* * *

 

“ _Andraste’s flaming crotch, you’re kidding right?”_ Leliana could hear the slur from where she stood by the entrance to the Imperial Highway. “Not you again,” the woman finishes as she stops in front of Leliana, arms crossed.

“Oh, hello again!” Leliana says lightly, “So will you let me help you? Will you let me come?” choosing to ignore the blasphemous profanity and the qunari man who had previously been locked in a cage outside town. Although, she cannot help but feel a little peeved with the knowledge that this young woman was more open to the idea of recruiting a known murderer than Leliana, herself.

“Oh, I’ll let you come… but then you’ll have to leave.”

“I—” She was clearly trying to antagonize Leliana, and granted, the remark probably would have made any other chantry sister uncomfortable enough to desist – but Leliana wasn’t like most chantry sisters. “Excuse me?” she manages; _astounded perhaps_ , _at the broad smirk splayed across the young woman’s face and the levity in which she spoke, but I’m **not** blushing,_ she tells herself, despite the heat she feels on her cheeks. The young woman chuckles at her response; _the brazen smile does look good on her, though_ … She is tall, although not as tall as the young man with her, and fit – the clinging leathers she wore displaying the curve of her lithe muscles. Some of her golden braid has come undone, leaving wavy wisps the color of sunshine caressing her sharp features, betraying the illusion of softness. _She is actually quite good-looking,_ Leliana considers, _with those hooded, daring eyes and that suggestive smile..._ Feeling her cheeks heat further, Leliana breaks eye contact.

“Her plea seems wholehearted and even though she seems a little… strange, she does have skill. I vote to let her come along.”

“Of course you do, Alistair,” the young woman says, rolling her eyes. Now it’s Alistair’s turn to blush. “She’s one archdemon short of a Blight,” she exclaims, beautiful smile still intact. _How do such bitter words manage to cascade from such sweet lips…_ Leliana catches herself gawking once again and has to force her eyes away.

“Yes,” Alistair agrees, “But she seems more ‘Ooh pretty colors!’ than ‘Mwahaha! I am Princess Stabbity! Stab, kill, kill!’”

Leliana is pretty sure she was just insulted again and allows her displeasure to show. The young woman begins shaking her head, chuckling softly.

“Oh, all right!” she breathes, smiling kindly over at Alistair, “Fine, Alistair. For you, fine. You each get one. You two are not convincing me of any more – you’ve hit your limit.” Directing her attention back to Leliana, she grumbles, “If you promise to stop talking, you can come. Our qunari friend over here has that part down pat, perhaps you can ask him for some pointers.”

“Her name is Lethe, by the way, and she’s not nearly as scary as she seems,” Alistair says, earning himself a crippling glare. He blushes slightly but continues, “That scowling woman over there is Morrigan, and trust me, she _is_ as scary as she seems. The qunari, his name is Sten, I don’t know if you already knew that or not. This handsome fellow is Gabe, he’s Lethe’s mabari. And I’m Alistair, welcome aboard!” he finishes with a genial smile.

 _Lethe. Well, at least now I finally know her name._ Leliana returns his smile, “And I am Leliana.”

“So you’ve said,” Morrigan adds her sour voice to the discussion for the first time, sneering at Leliana, making it obvious what her vote would have been if she had been given a say. “Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought, Lethe. One would think, wearing a helmet ‘twould be in your best interest. If only to reinstate your ability to make sound judgments, clearly you have taken one too many blows to the head.”

Lethe responds with a single heartfelt guffaw, “Morrigan, we’ve been over this.” Lethe resumes the walk towards the Imperial Highway, nodding her head in that direction to indicate for them to follow. “I feel like, being able to see an attack coming, and therefore, being capable of dodging it is just as solid of a strategy as simply letting it hit me.”

“Hey that reminds me,” Alistair interjects, “You ever going to tell us where you went earlier?”

“To check up on old friends,” Lethe throws over her shoulder, uninterested in impelling the conversation much further, “I needed to make sure they were okay.” Alistair seems to take the hint and lays off but Leliana can see the concern glimmering in Lethe’s shadowed eyes.

“Are they okay?” Leliana asks, moving in pace beside her.

“They are now.” Lethe’s long legs look to take larger strides as the distance between them gradually grows. After about twenty or so steps Lethe is beyond the rest of the group, scouting ahead with Gabe at her side.

“Where is it we are heading?” Leliana asks to no one in particular, gaze still fixed on the lone figure ahead, although she is not surprised when it is Alistair’s voice that answers her.

“Redcliffe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to any and all who have stuck with me <3 I know the story has its vague moments but I swear that’s deliberate. Let me know if my writing/delivery is overly confusing. Critique always welcome :)


	4. Establishing Camp; Establishing My Place

Alistair is tending to the fire, preparing to cook dinner. Gabe is lying beside him, hoping Alistair will share more of his cheese with him. Sten is pacing the outer bounds of their camp and Morrigan is too far away to tell exactly what she is doing – potions maybe, like Lethe. Well, fumbling with her mortar and struggling with various materials was what Lethe was, in truth, doing. Leliana liked to keep tabs on those around her, it was a routine hard to shake, even after two years spent in a small town chantry. She made her way over to the woman whose back was currently to her as well as everyone else at camp.

“Would you like some help with that?” Leliana asks Lethe.

“I’m fine, thanks.” _Saying **no** seems to be quite the habit for this woman_ , Leliana muses, smiling slightly as Lethe balances a pestle between her fore and middle fingers before switching it over to her other hand.

“Of course you are,” giving Lethe a humored grin. “I just thought perhaps you’d like to put that thumb of yours to rest for a bit.” Lethe had acquired a deep gash while fighting darkspawn earlier this evening as the group left Lothering. The fight had been over quickly; Lethe had initially attempted to conceal her hand behind her back, squeezing her thumb firmly between her fingers and her palm – hampering the blood loss. Alistair however, had noticed the trickle of blood trailing down her arm, dripping into the dirt. She had allowed Morrigan to wrap it up but other than that had adamantly refused any further treatment – stitching, salve, or otherwise – claiming it to be _just a scratch,_ she had said.

Leliana laughs at the memory, taking a seat near Lethe – not near enough to infringe upon her personal space or distract Lethe from her work, but near enough to suggest that Leliana intended on staying to socialize. Lethe shifted on the log she sat upon, appearing uncertain how to respond to the unwarranted company. She watches dubiously, a frown developing as Leliana adjusts her position on the ground, getting comfortable. Lethe opens her mouth and Leliana steels herself, preparing for the rejection, but instead Lethe closes her mouth, relinquishing a deep breath. Using the palm of her hand, Lethe rubs her right eye, drawing Leliana’s attention to the two small birthmarks just below the tail end of her brow. 

“It’ll be fine in a couple of days,” Lethe says at last. She resumes her mixing, her hand contorted awkwardly, trying to keep her thumb deliberately out of the way. Wincing every so often when handling a flask or the pestle and mortar. Whenever her thumb would instinctively grip too tightly her hand would recoil, jiggling it in an effort to alleviate the pain. They sat there together for some time, Lethe effectively paying no mind to Leliana. She would look up from her task periodically to survey the surrounding landscape and Leliana wondered if she could actually see anything in the advancing darkness or if she was simply seeking a break from her frustrating labor. Done being ignored, Leliana tried for polite small talk.  

“How do you like Ferelden’s weather this time of year?” Lethe answers her query with a half-shrug and indifferent grimace, not looking up from her mixing. “Yes, I don’t very much care for the hot summers, either,” glancing up to Lethe, still focusing, face noncommittal, “I prefer the fall myself; scarfs, comfy, cozy layers! Fashionable boots! Oh, I could talk about fall fashion for days!” smiling broadly, she looks over to Lethe, who – betrayed by her profound scowl – does not appear to be enjoying herself at all. “But perhaps I shouldn’t... Do you have any favorite dishes?” Leliana giggles, looking over to Alistair who is poking at some poor hunk of… something, engulfed within the fire. “I suppose Alistair won’t be making one of those for us tonight, hmm?” Leliana jokes, earning herself a single half-hearted laugh from Lethe that doesn’t reach her eyes or curl her lips. _Well, at least she is pretending to humor me… that is good, yes?_ Before Leliana can think of another thing to say, Lethe mutters a hushed curse under her breath as she bumps her thumb again, hissing as she flaps her hand about.

“Was there something else you wanted?” she asks Leliana in her chagrin, no longer content with the peace between them.

“I could do that for you, if you’d like?” Leliana offers, “Just tell me how much and in what order, I know a little about miscellaneous concoctions, myself.”

“Should I ask how a chantry sister comes to know such things?” Lethe briefly glances Leliana’s way, a mocking smirk darkening her eyes. “No,” arranging a neutral expression upon her face, “I should have enough for tomorrow.” Lethe stands, carefully placing the vials she has assembled into her thigh pouch. “I’ll go help Alistair with dinner, Maker knows he needs it,” chuckling faintly, gracing Leliana with a surprisingly gentle smile and not her usual rascal’s smirk.

Leliana had known Lethe would decline her offer – it was in her nature, but she hadn’t expected the refusal to be kind. Leliana also stands. “And if you need something…” Leliana says, allowing her lips to remain marginally parted. She approaches Lethe, eyes regarding her hand. Reaching down, Leliana takes her wrist gingerly, noticing the crimson emerging along the dressing. “You have only to ask,” Leliana finishes, gazing into Lethe’s eyes and smiling warmly. “You know,” Leliana begins stroking the palm of Lethe’s hand, tracing the outlining of the bandages. “You should probably have these changed.”

“Aw, don’t worry about me, sister,” Lethe slowly drags her hand away with a chuckle, studying Leliana intently. “I’m sure next time the Maker will interfere and tell those silly darkspawn to stop hitting me.” Leliana sighs, watching as Lethe walks away. _One day,_ she decides, _one day she’ll trust me enough to slacken her reserve. I’ll consistently slap her with compassion until she has no choice but loosen up._

* * *

 

“Do you know how to cook?” Alistair asks, cautiously poking at the slab of meat within the fire. Lethe arrived beside him, crouching to look into the flames.

“Eeh… I know how to feed myself as to not starve… But cook? Err…” she responds.

“Do you think the meat is supposed to bubble like that?”

Gabe whines next to him.

“I don’t know… I’m mostly a forager; I stuck with fruits and vegetables, they’re less work.” Lethe removes the burnt lump from the fire, grimacing as bubbles on the surface burst and smoke, hearing Gabe whine again. “I’m sure it’s fine.” She takes a knife from the back of her belt and slices into the meat, noting that it is just as black on the inside as it is on the outside. “This is fine. People will love this…”

“What about herbs? You were collecting herbs earlier; do you have any we can rub over it to mask the flavor?” he asks, prodding at the meat some more.

“That’s a great idea, let me get my _deathroot_ out and we can slather _deathroot_ all over the food we plan on ingesting,” Lethe replies, rolling her eyes.

“What, I don’t know! You’re the expert!”

“I know enough not to get us killed and that makes me the expert. Wonderful. It’s okay, we’ll just have to plan this out better tomorrow night,” Lethe sighs. She carves out a piece and lobs it into her mouth, cringing as it hits her tongue. “This is fine; this is good…” she gags slightly, “This is really good. Mmm.”

Alistair watches as she scrunches her eyes shut, forcing a pained smile upon her face. “What are you doing?” he chuckles.

“Trying to convince myself that this is edible. _Sweet Andraste_ , I might put some deathroot on this just to put myself out of my misery.”

“Maker, remind me how I got suckered into doing this again?”

Lethe chokes down her bite. Grabbing her canteen, she swallows the remainder of its contents before speaking, setting the empty container aside. “Because Morrigan’s going to cook breakfast in the morning and I hurt my thumb,” holding her thumb out to him and pouting, jutting her bottom lip out dramatically. “Oh and because I don’t trust those other two,” she whispers, growing serious. She glances over to where Sten now stands, not ten paces away, and over to Leliana, her brows forming into a scowl. “Which speaking of, I want to talk to you about night watches tonight.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Alistair responds, motioning Gabe over to the meat. The dog sniffs it briefly, shrinking back to make a show of gagging.

“So you and Gabe are the only two I trust,” speaking in a much lower voice than before. “And I think one of us should always be on watch.”

“That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think?”

“ _Cautious._ Between our ability to sense darkspawn and general character judgment, I’d say it’s just sensible. At least until we know we can trust them.”

“All right, if you insist. Makes sense, I suppose,” he shrugs, cutting a piece of meat for himself.

“I do,” nodding her head, grimacing as Alistair brings his fork towards his mouth. “So I figure you and Sten—”

“Me and Sten? What?” Alistair exclaims indignantly, lowering his fork. “Why me and Sten?”

“Unless you’d prefer Morrigan...?” she teases, pausing – allowing him time to answer. At his scoff, she chuckles and continues, “Didn’t think so. Honestly? It’s because I believe you can overpower Sten, if it comes to that,” fixing him with a sober and sincere gaze. “I trust you, Alistair.” At that, he could only nod dumbly, affected by her words despite his disgruntlement. _Trust me? Does she truly trust me? Maker, but why?_

Lost in thought, he misses when she starts speaking again, catching only the end. “…with Morrigan, just don’t eat any more of her herbs, okay boy?” Gabe chuffs at her soft chiding, raising his head, offended. Lethe laughs, scratching him lovingly behind his ear, melting his pretense.

“You don’t think she’ll try to kill him?” Alistair asks, picking his fork back up.

“Nah,” she shakes her head casually. “I’ve seen her sneak him treats when she thinks no one is looking,” a smile touching her face. “She’s all talk.”

 _All talk? I don’t know about that,_ Alistair thinks to himself, _wouldn’t bet my life on it, that’s for sure._ About to begin eating, Alistair stops, realization hitting him. “Hey! Why do you get the easy one?”

Lethe doesn’t look his way when he speaks, her steady appraisal is fixed on Leliana, any trace of a smile vanishing. “I think there’s more there than meets the eye. And I don’t trust it. Or her, for that matter.” She takes a deep breath and kneads two circles into her temple, dropping her hand down to stroke her check pensively. “Maker, I hope she doesn’t try to convert me,” throwing Alistair a sideways glance accompanied by a smirk. “How annoying, am I right?”

Alistair laughs and places the morsel into his mouth. “Mmm, bland and unappetizing – just how food should be. Now if only I had some potatoes...” He finished his mouthful and cuts himself some more.

* * *

 

Lethe flips a knife in her hand, performing maneuvers and struggling not to flinch each time she catches the knife. The two women haven’t spoken since they began their watch together. Eventually Lethe curses, examining the fresh blood escaping her hand. Discarding her pastime practicing, she fastens the small blade into a strap on her inner left thigh, hidden from view by her potions pouch. Lethe searches her person for a moment, a look of confusion crossing her features. Coming up empty she hesitates a glance over to Leliana. “You wouldn’t happen to have any extra bandages on you, would you?” she asks, almost bashfully, Leliana decides.

Leliana smiles over to Lethe, retrieving an injury kit from her pack. When Lethe reaches out for the wrappings, Leliana draws back, smiling her admonishment. “Allow me; wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself further, now would we?”

“I could manage—”  

“With one hand? I don’t want to hear it,” Leliana interrupts, snatching Lethe’s hand before she can protest. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so cocky this wouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Leliana murmurs under her breath as she precedes in her ministrations.

“Cocky, hmm?” A glint of amusement in her shrewd eyes.

“I was watching you during the fight,” Leliana explains. “You weren’t giving any thought as you flitted between five darkspawn carelessly. What were you trying to do, kill them all before anyone else could?”

She doesn’t say anything at first and Leliana thinks maybe she has overstepped. However, as the slow smile creeps across Lethe’s face she realizes Lethe isn’t taking her seriously at all. “You were watching me?”

Leliana sighs, dropping their conversation. She finishes wrapping up Lethe’s hand, taking extra care her grazing touch does not linger on Lethe’s skin for too long. “There you go, all patched up. See? There are worse things than letting people help you.” Leliana releases her hand, feeling Lethe’s fingers brush against her own as she pulls away. “Now if only I could convince you to be careful,” chancing at frivolity, smiling up at Lethe’s now stoic face. “Perhaps you should refrain from dagger acrobatics for tonight, yes? I don’t know how many kits I can spare for your hand tonight,” Leliana jests, raising her brows a little and widening her smile.

It might be Leliana’s imagination, but she thinks she sees the corner of Lethe’s lips twitch upward as her eyes narrow, regarding Leliana with a level scrutiny. Her eyes slip away from Leliana’s own, falling to the ground as she chuckles faintly and nods.

“Right, well,” Lethe says, clearing her throat and peering perceptively off into the distance, as if expecting to see something out of place amidst the trees. “It’s probably not a terrible idea to be attentive while on watch, anyway. And, you know, _watch_.” Without another word, she begins walking in the direction she has been inspecting. Halfway to the woods she throws an explanation over her shoulder, “I’m going to do a perimeter of the forest surrounding camp.”

Leliana watches as she leaves, feeling oddly bereft. _Just when she was warming to her, too._

Lethe turns around suddenly before entering the tree line, biting her bottom lip anxiously, avoiding eye contact with Leliana. She swallows, releasing her lip, “If I need—If find myself unable to adequately accomplish something, because—you know, because my thumb, I’ll let you know.”

Repeating her words from earlier with as much earnest as before, Leliana says, “You have only to ask.” And she meant it.

With a sorrowful tug on an insecure smile, Lethe begins to spin around only to jerk back in a fluid motion. “Oh, and here.” She tosses a rounded object in her direction. Leliana catches it, turning the apple over in her hands. “I couldn’t bring myself to eat any of that mess Alistair scorched, and I noticed neither did you appear so very inclined to partake, yourself,” Lethe continues, yet to establish eye contact with Leliana. She stares down incredulously at the delicious-looking fruit in her hands, feeling her stomach growl in response. “Luckily, I still have enough of a stash of those to last me a couple of days until we get to Redcliffe.”

 _You, too, were watching me?_ When Leliana looks up, Lethe’s self-confidence is back – cheeky smirk and all.

“Anyway,” Lethe shrugs, “Don’t make it something it’s not.”

She smiles as Lethe skirts into the shadows and out of view, wondering if the fruit tasted as delectable as it looked.

 ~

In the morning, as Leliana leaves her tent she finds herself irrationally upset when she locates Lethe at the far reaches of camp, hair being braided by Morrigan.


	5. Redcliffe

Nearly a week has passed as the group journeyed the dirt smirched broken highway west for Redcliffe; and Leliana’s boots sure showed it. She stops a moment to pat out what crud she can from her crusty boots, also allowing her tired feet a brief repose. The breeze carries a sticky kiss, signaling the nearing of Lake Calenhad and with luck a longer resting period. The others don’t wait for her, they pull further ahead than they already had been, looking none-the-worse for wear and pretending to ignore the sorry shape she herself was in. _Two years in the chantry has spoiled me._

The days were filled with walking and the nights at camp proceeded much the same as the first. Tents were set up quickly, a large central fire was kindled, and Alistair filled the intervening silence with terrible jokes and insubstantial chatter. After those two tasks were taken care of, each of them had unofficial responsibilities that they had taken up. Sten and Gabe patrolled the confines of camp, confirming that the spot selected was indeed secure. Morrigan mixed healing potions from the herbs and such she would collect throughout the day, distributing out elixirs to any who had need the following morning. Alistair continued to cook dinner with the help of Lethe; the two must have been working on their technique somehow or another because the meals have improved since that first night. Not drastically, the food was still by no means _tasty,_ however, it was getting there – Leliana no longer had the nagging concern that she might very well starve at the back of her mind.

As for herself, Leliana didn’t really have a job. She extended her assistance to each of them, Morrigan and Lethe had flat-out refused – _no surprise there_ – Alistair hadn’t challenged Lethe’s rebuff, as Leliana knew he wouldn’t, although he did offer an apologetic shrug. Neither Sten nor Gabe really needed any help, they hadn’t said so – _again, no surprise –_ or spurned her away, but Leliana knew both were more than capable without her. She could repair any torn articles of clothing or armor even, but they hadn’t come across many darkspawn in the past few days – and that was a blessing, of course, but it meant Leliana was useless, which Lethe all but accused her of being back in Lothering…

So these past few nights she has simply sat – idly fletching out of the way of the others or making a futile effort at scraping the red clay from her boots – and observed. Given what time they have spent together, Leliana was now beginning to understand how everyone functioned within the group and that brought her some comfort. She considered that her secret little assignment to herself, _a game_. _Once a bard, always a bard, no?_ She tried not to think about it too much.

Sten still said little and almost exclusively when spoken to first – _military minded, that one._ The only exception being with Lethe; he would approach her on occasion and Leliana could never tell what they spoke of because their faces told two completely different stories. His expression emanated business, professionalism – and absolutely no evidence of amusement. And yet, Lethe’s always did – even going so far as to laugh at some of the things he would say… _Hard to imagine._

Morrigan spoke nearly as seldom as Sten. In fact, she seemed determined to keep herself distant from the others, speaking only when an opportunity for a spiteful comment (usually at Alistair’s expense, but a time or two at Leliana’s own) presented itself and was too tempting to let pass by. Lethe would almost always laugh – sometimes even join in with those remarks, giving Morrigan more validation than she deserved – in Leliana’s opinion – but then Lethe would roll her eyes when she looked over to Alistair, a smile lingering in place for him.

Alistair… poor, sweet Alistair. He looked at Lethe like she was Andraste herself, delivering Ferelden from the clutches of the Archdemon and all of its woes. Although, Leliana could hardly blame him. From what she has pieced together about what happened at Ostagar and what the two have been through in such a short time, he had every reason to think so highly of her. She was benign with him, which Leliana couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of. Alistair viewed her as their leader. Lethe had stepped up and taken the burden of command – relieved him of that responsibility, although she appeared to hate it just as much as he did. Lethe seemed most comfortable scouting ahead, removed from the rest of the party – with the exception of Gabe, of course. Every once in a while, whilst turning around she could be caught with a smile plastered on her windswept face, only for her high spirits to sink at the recollection that she was being followed – at the helm and accountable.

Well, Leliana supposed Lethe effectively was their leader. Who else was she following into this Blight? The carnage? The Maker? Alistair? Yes, the Maker was a steadying and reassuring hand on her heart but He left the physical guidance of the realm to His able children. And no offence to Alistair, he is darling and a deceivingly adept warrior but would he have been capable of recruiting Morrigan or Sten? He also appears completely opposed to making even the smallest decisions, would he be willing to map out the direction for their ultimate quest they were set upon? It was a talent Lethe possessed, Leliana noticed. She became the person these people needed her to be; a strong military officer to Sten, home and family to Gabe, a friend and unfailing partner to Alistair, _bitch-in-arms_ to Morrigan... _Also, it didn’t hurt that she was nice to look at;_ the thought flashes uninvited through Leliana’s mind and she blinks it away. _And what is she to me?_

Relations between herself and their leader hadn’t exactly improved. Their watches together were mostly silent, save for Leliana’s efforts at conversation, in which Lethe would not participate. At least, when Leliana would look to her, disgust wasn’t permanently etched on Lethe’s face anymore. At times there seemed to be a vague sense of amusement withheld, if she was not mistaken. Inevitably though, sometime during their shift every night, while Leliana would be prattling on, Lethe would leave entirely – to do a perimeter, she supposed – and Leliana wouldn’t see her again until the following morning. In any case, her thumb was healing nicely, given the lack of combat – she had even elected to forgo her dagger training until the gash had closed up. _Which was good_ ; _except now she had no reason to grab for Lethe’s hand._

_Wait, what? No. Where’d that thought come from? It **is** good, Lethe was being careful – like you had asked her to._

Leliana shakes her head, attempting to dismiss her thoughts. She looks around her at the encompassing brown terrain; the group has crossed into the outer stretches of Redcliffe. They haven’t spotted any people yet, which is troubling. They knew the arl was sick, but that should be no reason for the countryside to appear so abandoned – something was wrong. Leliana hastens her steps to catch up with the two wardens positioned quite a bit ahead of her, leaving Sten behind her and moving past Morrigan and Gabe before Lethe and Alistair come into view.

“Why? You know, you’ve been acting strangely all day, Alistair,” Lethe says with a beaming smile.

_That smile she is giving him now… showing him what it could be like to be loved, showing him she cares._

“Are you jealous?” Lethe continues, smile turning into a smirk. “You think Sten and I stay up all night and braid each other’s hair—hey actually maybe I should look into that… his braids never come loose like mine does…” she trails off in contemplation.

“I’d like to see that!” Alistair laughs in response. “No, I was just wondering what you two talk about, that’s all. He’s all silent and looming… You don’t actually trust him, do you?”

“He’s got jokes, don’t let his forbearance fool you.” Lethe allows a grin to develop. “And he’s direct,” she shrugs, smile falling with her shoulders. “You don’t see that level of honesty often in this world. The first thing he told us about himself was this damning thing he had done; most people save their secrets or past burdens for later in the relationship – if they ever tell you at all. I don’t know,” she chuckles, shaking her head and shrugging again. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“There’s something I should probably tell you…”

 _Those eyes, telling him he is the only thing she’s focusing on, that she is listening, waiting on his words, that he is the only thing that matters right now. That what he has to say is important – even if it isn’t. To be looked upon in such a way… what that must be like…_ The Revered Mother at Lothering’s chantry had been kind and welcoming to her when few others had been, but she, like all the others there encouraged Leliana’s silent contemplation. And then the years before the chantry… Leliana feels a pang in her chest as she stares on at a distance.

“I can see it.”

“ _I can see it?”_ he repeats back to her incredulously. He stops walking and turns to Lethe. “That’s it?”

“From what I’ve heard, Maric enjoyed his share of tumbles,” she shrugs, disinterested. “Suppose I can’t judge the man, I’m not really one to talk.” She raises her eyebrows with a throw of one shoulder, tilting her nose up ever so slightly and settling into her naturally haughty air.

“ _From what you’ve heard?_ How could you— oh, right,” a moment of recollection hits him and he trails off into a fit of nervous laughter.

“Come on, _oh exalted King Alistair_ , your subjects have need of you.” She claps him on the arm, a devilish smirk peeking through before she covers it with a look of false solemnity and bows her head. Completely stupefied by her display, he does not register when she leaves to continue her advancement towards Redcliffe. Or perhaps it should be called _Red-alistair_ ; he is by far a more remarkable shade of deep red than any of the clay Leliana has spotted thus far around these parts.

Leliana trots to catch up to the still unmoving form of Alistair and offers him a small, knowing smile, resting a comforting hand on his bicep. She could relate to how he was feeling, Lethe had a habit of leaving people this way.

“I- I…” he starts, fumbling for words.

“I heard.”

“Right…” he murmurs, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“And I wasn’t eavesdropping, well not intentionally… I came over because I noticed we haven’t come across any people. That is unusual, is it not?”

Appearing to forcibly regain his wits, Alistair takes a moment to consider her words, searching around to verify that they were indeed true. When he opens his mouth to speak he is cut off by a yell heard further ahead, echoing with Lethe’s consternation.

“ _Oh, of course, this exactly the state I was hoping Redcliffe would be in—hey, Grey Warden groupies, get over here, quick!_ ”

 

* * *

 

  **9:37 Dragon**

A balmy gust plummets in from the waves of Lake Calenhad, wrenching Leliana’s hood from her head. She instinctively wants to yank it back in place, to cower behind its shroud of linen, but her hands do not move from their anchoring constraint on her necklace.

_The griffon statue._

_It was the first thing erected when the new Redcliffe Village was set for construction – a nice gesture. It seems Lethe left her mark everywhere she went, in her own way, and in most cases unintentionally. Most people wouldn’t be able to pick her out in a crowd and other than “The Warden” or “The Hero of Ferelden” might not even know her name, just the good she left in her wake. It was easy to forget that she was simply a woman who made what choices she could behind those tales sometimes…_

This new Redcliffe Village was prosperous, more so than the first. Merchants and townspeople alike bustled around where Leliana stood motionless, rooted in place, eyes fixed on the immense statue in front of her with thoughts stuck in the past. Lethe would have liked it; she could get lost in the throng. _Nobody’s paying attention to anyone else,_ she’d say with that terribly lawless and adorable smirk of hers. _Alone surrounded by people;_ Leliana understood the feeling well.

_You shouldn’t have to do whatever it is that you are doing alone, Lethe._

She takes a deep breath, determined to expel her stale sentimentality with her exhale.

“I know this is hard for you, Leliana—”

“She brought this on herself,” she snaps, glaring over to Cassandra with a little more hostility than necessary. _You don’t know anything;_ she wants to say _,_ but that would be unfair. _Not that any of this is fair…_ But she already takes out more of her unvented anger and bitterness on Cassandra than she should. Cassandra merely nods, and desists. None of this is Cassandra’s fault, Leliana knows that. _Lethe is to blame for all of this_. _And here I am wasting emotion on her._

Out of the corner of her eye, Leliana spots the approaching figure of an older woman.

“Sister Leliana?” the graying woman rasps out. It has been ten years since Leliana has seen the Lothering Elder and the passing decade looks to have been hard on Miriam; _hasn’t it been hard on everyone?_ Leliana barely recognizes her, though, she supposes she herself must look quite a sight different from her lay sister days – looking back she feels like a different person now, older, benumbed. She smiles as warmly as she can manage, tolerating the welcoming hug with a stiff continence. “Why, it really is you,” Miriam continues, releasing Leliana from her hug but still holding her at arm’s length, smiling broadly. “You made it out of Lothering after all. And look at you!” She drops her arms and takes a step away from Leliana, sweeping her hands out in a gesture towards the redhead. “You look the very same; time has been kind to you, dear, hasn’t it? Though you look like you’ve lost weight, you are taking care of yourself, I hope?”

“Did you receive my letter?” Leliana asks, feeling self-conscious under Miriam’s sympathetic gaze.

“Yes, dear,” Miriam nods. “And I take it that this woman is the Lady Pentaghast that you wrote of?” Cassandra’s answering nod draws Miriam’s attentions away from Leliana, allowing herself time for an easing breath. “Come now you two, my home is only a short walk away; we can talk more comfortably there.”

As Miriam led them away, Cassandra shoots Leliana an inquiring raise of her brow – a silent, if unsubtle: _are you okay?_ Leliana musters a weak, shaky nod and Cassandra turns to address Miriam – more than happy to take lead of the questioning and conversing. Leliana trails a few paces behind them, bolstering her Nightingale veneer of steel. _Maker’s Breath, how unconvincing must I have been that even Cassandra was able to see through my mask? I’ll have to work on that..._ She smiles and hastens her steps to rejoin the two woman ahead of her.

 

* * *

  **9:30 Dragon**

“I’ll do it.”

Lethe spoke so softly; her stance is so sure, her face so neutral. Leliana thinks she imagined the words but for Alistair’s outburst.

“Lethe, no! He’s just a _child,_ ” Alistair pleads, trembling and outraged, grief drooping his features. He glances to the buckled form of his uncle, the bann of Rainesfere – cradling an injury sustained during battle with his right arm and the wailing arlessa with his left. Neither provide any lucid advisement.

Pools of blood spread from the lifeless bodies sprawled throughout the hall within Redcliffe Castle. Blood covers each of them standing here, to a degree, in the aftermath of the fight; Alistair and Lethe more than the others – most of it isn’t their own. Morrigan appears spotless, other than the squelch that can be heard from the bottom of her boots with each step. A dense tingling fills the air around them, a nebulous aroma of sweetness meets Leliana’s nose.

_Magic._

Leliana’s stomach churns, nauseated by the rusty scent of blood mixing with the ambrosial of magic. She feels petrified… maybe she was, she didn’t know what to say – if words would even come if she tried… None of this felt real.

“ _It_ is not a _child_ , Alistair, _it_ is a _demon_. A _demon_ that just tried to kill us. A _demon_ that goes out and kills people every night. A _demon_ that holds Arl Eamon in a coma. I don’t understand how this is even a question!” Lethe throws her hands up in exasperation, turning away from Alistair to face the doorway Connor has fled through with a resolute gaze. She brings the palm of her hand to her forehead, unconcerned with the blood – wet on her fingers – intertwining with the pale strands there, pressing in with a force likely to replace the current impeding headache with that of a new one. Her forearm bracer is shredded nearly in two with minor cuts and scratches dotting her revealed wrist where splotches of burgundy have clotted and begin to flake away.

When she removes her hand a faint crimson handprint can be seem within the fringes of her fair hairline. Lethe’s collected composure begins to waver; Leliana can see it in the clench and unclench of her jaw, the pulse flickering wildly at her neck.

“There must be another way!” Alistair’s pleas continue, a sob caught in the back of his throat appealing to Lethe’s humanity. She releases a deep sigh, eyes falling to the floor.

“The only way to deal with a demon is to kill it,” Morrigan adds matter-of-factly and, if Leliana is not mistaken, with a touch of cold delight.

“Connor is my nephew, but he is an abomination. Killing him almost seems a mercy…”

A shrill incoherent sob tears from the Arlessa, who promptly crumples into the arms of the nearby Bann Teagan, passing out of consciousness once again.

“Please tell me we are not considering killing a child...” Leliana whispers, unsure if her aversion will count for anything.

“ _Not_ a child, a demon.” Lethe jerks her head towards Leliana, a fresh asperity ignited within her dark eyes. “Look, you guys aren’t making this any easier. It’s not like I want to kill Con—it… it has to be done.”

She draws her sword and takes a step towards the door.

“No it isn’t right!” The shout leaves Leliana before she can restrain herself. The outcry halts Lethe’s progression, she turns on Leliana with a cold audacity. “ _How can magic be so malicious… Can you not fix this_?” Leliana adds in a shaky whisper. Softness (or was it a sadness?) leaks across Lethe’s face for the briefest of moments at Leliana’s utterance. Feeling the tears tugging at her eyes and uncomfortably vulnerable under Lethe’s responsive gaze, Leliana crosses her arms, diverting her eyes elsewhere.

“Wait, _magic –_ that’s it! Lethe please, stop! Listen to me!”

“What, Alistair!” She spins to face him, all trances of sensitivity gone, reserving a pure and vehement fury for Alistair’s antagonism. “ _What?_ ”

“The- the Circle of Magi! It should take less than half a day to get there by boat. Please, let me go! Let me try, Lethe… I have to try…”

Leliana has to admit, she is impressed by the man’s nerve. Perhaps she had been wrong to write him off to so little.

“No.” The word is hard, coerced from tightly clamped lips under merciless eyes.

“Lethe—”

“No,” Lethe repeats, tone lowering in volume, however, in a way seeming less in control than before. “You’ll stay here. I’ll go to the Circle Tower.” Her jaw is held firmly locked, her terse enunciation painful to hear coming from her mellifluous voice. “And if he makes a move, you’ll be the one to put him down.”

She still keeps her sword held erect and rigidly gripped, rage-checked eyes drilling into his own. Shocked and mouth agape, Alistair does not answer, nor does he move. Leliana thinks perhaps she perceives a nod, but that might just be the tension hanging in the air. Silently at Lethe’s side is Gabe as the two amble towards the courtyard. The squelch of bloodied boots falls in step behind them.

“You can come, Morrigan – though I can’t imagine _why_ you’d want to visit our local zoo of caged-up mage puppets.” Lethe offers a sober nod to the apostate, ferocity still coating her words. “But someone needs to stay with Alistair in case he requires assistance.” She lands her harsh appraisal on Alistair, squinting distrustfully. But he does not blush or flinch as Leliana would have expected; his funereal grimness remaining intact. He knows he came out favorably, that Lethe has bowed to his will. “ _Or if he cannot carry out what must be done.”_ He gulps stiffly; her gaze then comes to inspect Leliana. Lethe whispers in a concise hiss, “Someone who can be trusted to proceed should he fail.”

  _And that someone isn’t you._ She doesn’t say it aloud, but Leliana can read the thought as it passes behind Lethe’s burning eyes. Leliana had made her objection known.

“Sten?” Lethe asks, without breaking eye contact with Leliana.

“Meravas.”

Lethe nods, ever watching Leliana.

“Well, then. Let's find us a boat, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, comments/questions welcome.


	6. Kinloch Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a disclaimer: I used some [Bioware owned] game dialogue in this chapter similarly to how I did in the Lothering chapter.

**???**

_Running, you take your steps mindfully. The forest is overrun and dense, teeming with natural life. In years of the past you have tripped on the creeping and tangled vines, gone skidding face-first amongst a vibrant array of poisonous flora enough times for your leaps to have a conditioned coordination. Planting your feet surely on or between branches and fallen trees, you thrust off the rough bark as an exciting sense of elation pulses through your veins. You are free._

_Wind snatches at your face and pulls at your hair but you laugh; what can touch you immersed within a world of verdant zest? The green (was it always so green?) envelops all as far as your eyes can see. The nectarous air rejuvenates you; you are powerful._

_You slow a moment – not to catch your breath but to appreciate the abundance of it and to relish in your surroundings. The buzzing of insects, flapping of bird wings, and the light crunching footfalls of a distant animal. You feel the smile at your lips stretch, your checks scrunch up towards your eyes; you breathe in the delicate daylight. You are safe._

_A large-petaled flower catches your eye and you make your way over to it. Cautiously, you crouch for a closer examination. The plant also breathes, as engaged with this forest as you are. The_ _heliotrope foliage extends over other dying stalks and shrubberies, spilling sumptuously upon the bed of moss below. A film of fuzz overlays the petals, granting an appearance of something soft and inviting, you imagine they feel as velvet would. Your curiosity gets the better of you (unsurprisingly) and you extend out your hand._

_"Toxic. Flesh-rotting.”_

_You hear the warning and retract your inquisitive hand, interest evaporating into alarm. Jolting upward with a start you turn to meet the smirking face of this new arrival with a glare of your own. Her arms are crossed and her hip is jutted out to one side. She shakes her head and chuckles at your stance of rebellion. You hold your ground. She smiles broadly now and you feel your defiance crumble into warmth. Releasing her arms, she sprints out towards you. As you brace for the impact, she closes her eyes. A slow smile slinks across your face as you grasp what’s happening._

_From within the cloud of smoke a small golden falcon emerges and soars sky bound at incredible speeds through the thick canopy of trees, disappearing within an instant. You stand where you were left, hunched but unmoving, listening. The sharp screech announces her return, but she is too small and flying too fast for you to follow her movements. A turbulent gust and a flash of_ _primrose; she is hovering before your eyes. You stare on in admiration for the few seconds she allows before she sails further into the woods. Oh, this old game._

* * *

**9:30 Dragon**

They embark within the small hours of the night. The creaking of the boat and the soft splashing of parting water the only sound disturbing the otherwise uncanny silence. The boat they had managed to procure wasn’t notable. It was a fisherman’s vessel and so stunk of his trade. It did, however, boast a lower deck spacious enough to lodge a single bed. Additionally, the man had offered to navigate and helm the tiller free of charge – _the least he could do for the hero who had saved his village_ ; he had said. The gushing chantry sister had taken the man’s amenability as a sign that their good deeds were recognized by _her maker_ and brought them favor. In Morrigan’s opinion, all of this had been an utter waste of time – defending that pathetic village, sparing the possessed child, voyaging out to the mage’s prison – all of it pointless.

Since the plan had been to sail directly to the tower through the night and into the morning, they had decided to allocate their sleep appropriately by taking advantage of the provided bed. Morrigan had claimed the first handful of hours for herself. It wasn’t the easiest of rests she had stolen along their travels – feeling much more at home enwrapped within a cloak of trees, upon a sturdy dirt floor than on a noisy wooden bucket swaying precariously through immeasurable water.

                                                                                                       ~

Her stomach drops, awakening to the teetering of placid waves. The first thing she registers is the equally nauseating sugar-coated jabbering of Leliana and the urge to vomit – not convinced that the two weren’t related. The cabin is no longer dark; stark columns of daybreak stain the wooden floorboards. As she shifts in bed Gabe glances up to her from his spot on the ground, inclining his head curiously as she stumbles to her feet. _Of course, the bloody mongrel feels the need to follow me everywhere… Still, better than being left with Alistair in Redcliffe._ Morrigan takes a few moments to settle herself before climbing the stairs to the main deck.

The sun was now rising, its glistening rays illuminating the tranquil waters of Lake Calenhad. Morrigan brings a hand before her face to block out the glaring light. It is a beautiful sight even to a cynic such as she; but not beautiful enough for Morrigan to forget where she was or where she was headed. She feels her stomach sink once again as her boots reach the upper deck and contend for proper footing.

“Do you think we are allowed to swim in it?” she hears Leliana say. _Forever rambling about something._ Lethe chuckles effortlessly at the question.

“I’d really prefer _not_ to get my leathers so thoroughly soaked, thank you,” comes Lethe’s dry retort.

“You wouldn’t be wearing your leathers, silly! We would have to take our armor off, of course. I assume that would not be a problem for you, no?” Her voice falls to a suggestive timbre before returning to her usual ear-splitting shrills. “Oh, come on Lethe; it would be fun! – Lethe, what is it? Do you have a headache?”

Morrigan locates the two woman standing at the front of the boat. _Awfully close together, I might add_ ; she observes. Leliana’s body is angled toward Lethe, who is leaning over the railing – eyes closed, right hand slack and dangling out over the water below, the other supporting her slumped head. Reaching out near Lethe, Leliana pauses – hand lingering hesitantly over Lethe’s head, fingers trembling as if fighting a longing to stroke the hair near her temple. She draws back, appearing to think better of it and drops her hand to her side.

_Suspicious._

Morrigan crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes.

_The blasted chantry and its inane desire to push itself on others._

“What? No, why? I’m great. I look onto this exquisitely _scintillating_ _,"_ Lethe grumbles, opening her eyes with a flinch and squinting up into the sunrise. She takes a breath before continuing, "— morning light with eager, open eyes.” She tilts her head to peek an eye towards Leliana, the trace of a smile touching her lips and glossing her voice.

“Well, except for the open eyes bit…” Matching Lethe’s playful tone, Leliana trails off; biting her bottom lip. She brings a hand up to stifle the unintentional giggle.

“Hmm, what was that?”

“Your right eye!” Leliana giggles again, unable or unwilling to contain her amusement. She brings a hand up to Lethe’s own that is still bearing the weight of her head, softly pulling it away to reveal the sheltered eye. “Is it even open?” she finishes with another giggle.

Morrigan cannot see the eye in question from where she stands. She can, however, see the siren’s grin painted across Lethe’s face and the dallying hand of the chantry sister currently resting on Lethe’s own. Morrigan rolls her eyes with a huff, at last alerting the other two women to her presence.

Leliana withdraws her hand and straightens her posture, but neither woman appear particularly surprised to see Morrigan standing there. Lethe slowly turns around to face Morrigan, leaning back onto her elbows as she does so.

A reflexive snarl draws at Morrigan’s lip as she looks over the redhead; she raises her eyebrows in disapproval as she scans her scrutiny over to Lethe.

“I’ll have you know, Leliana,” Lethe begins casually, accepting Morrigan’s critical gaze as she speaks – usual smirk in place. “My right eye is in fact just smaller than my left. Nobody ever notices it though unless pointed out.” Her smile stalls. “I am also extremely sensitive about the subject and refuse to discuss it further.”

“Really?” Leliana asks, brows furrowing; smile bordering between dubious and entertained.

 _Fool._ Morrigan scoffs; rolling her eyes as she glances from Lethe to some irrelevant point off in the distance.

“Hmm? Oh, no, not really. But you should get some sleep, you’re getting loopy on me.” Lethe looks back over to Leliana nodding over in the direction of the stairs with a lazy slanted smile, a smug gleam in her eye, and a chuckle held suppressed under her breath. She presents as condescending, and Morrigan assumes that is how the chantry sister will construe her act. But it is still just that: an act. And an average one, at that, leaving Morrigan uninspired.

Leliana staggers a moment, unable to rule whether Lethe had been joking or not. She opens her mouth as if to speak but Lethe deters her protests with an undue kindly smile and an emphatic glance towards the stairs.

“Well I suppose we have had a rather draining couple of days, haven’t we?” Leliana smiles and descends the stairs with one last glance over her shoulder at Lethe, smile widening.

Morrigan looks over to a still smiling Lethe.

“You’ve grown fond of the chantry wench.” It wasn’t a question; it was a challenge.

Lethe heaves a drawn-out breath of nuisance, closing her eyes as she does so.

“Of course not, Morrigan. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And here I thought the dashing and gallant Lady Cousland preferred her suitors catty, impersonal, and _many_ – with an edge of peril. Who would have guessed that the very foil to her own personality – this mindless chantry tart – would have her coddling—”

“I’m not playing this game with you, Morrigan.” She sighs out a slight groan, squeezing her eyes closed as if to command the pain away. “And I don’t _coddle._ ”

Morrigan silences; her teasing diatribe was but a halfhearted digression of that which she truly wished to quarrel. She takes the opportunity to inspect the woman in front of her without reserve. Lethe’s smirk is gone; cast off in favor of a vexed grimace. She appears less inclined to downplay her suffering with the chantry sister gone. Lines formed on either side of her mouth – presumably from a habitual frowning – show plainly.

“The potions you mix at night,” Morrigan broaches with what little prevarication she can manage. “Are they not meant to ease that which plagues you?”

“Nope," Lethe grits out, jaw contracting irritably. She clears her throat. "Purely for my sipping pleasure. Tastes like sugar cookies,” she says with a light smile, striving for insouciance.

“One does not often hear poison compared to sugar cookies,” Morrigan goads, unwilling to endure the evasive exchange a moment longer. Lethe shoots her a cautioning glance. “The others may be so very lacking in their knowledge of herbs and medicinals as to believe that those concoctions in which you drink to be simple health poultices, but you really should have realized I would recognize otherwise. The chantry wench is correct in her one observation – your head pains you. Now I ask this again, is the poison not meant to eradicate that which plagues you?”

“It is.” A lapse of silence passes; clearly Lethe does not intend on elaborating.

With a heavy sigh, Morrigan tries again. “I need not remind you, dear Warden, that once there was a time whence I had myself a little companion to traipse about the Korcari Wilds with and share my secrets. You need not keep that which I already know from me.”

“You almost admitted we were friends once, Morrigan!” Lethe admonishes with mock amazement. “Tsk, tsk. You are slipping,” she smirks.

 _That unbearably self-satisfied and triumphant smile of hers..._ Morrigan retaliates with one of her own, in every respect as gloating and malevolent.

“Four parts lyrium dust,” Morrigan begins, counting off on her fingers. “Two doses in equal measure of a corruptor and a concentrator agent: a magic inhibitor, if I am not mistaken.” At the mention of magic Lethe’s smile retreats. _As it had a tendency to do;_ Morrigan notes. “One might find that interesting enough in itself – alas, coupled with four applications of toxin extract, four bushels of deathroot, and yet more concentrator agent I cannot help but marvel at the fact that our extraordinary hero feels anything at all – least of all a trifling headache.” Morrigan crosses her arms, making her point with smug vindication.

Lethe’s smile that disappeared a minute ago returns ten-fold.

“You really think I’m extraordinary?”

Morrigan rolls her eyes at the question. _That would be the one thing that Lethe picked up from my tirade_ ; she thinks to herself.

“I do believe I might swoon,” Lethe beams.

“Swoon?” Morrigan lashes back. “More likely die where you stand, frailty of the human body at last yielding before the poison’s ravenous advances. Surely you do not believe you can go on like this forever? It is a most foolish notion.”

“Then I say some flippant quip about you caring, you roll your eyes and abandon your interrogation?” Lethe asks hopefully in a small voice. Morrigan does indeed roll her eyes at Lethe’s twaddle but she does not soften her stance; _I will hold my ground._ Lethe sees this and admits her defeat with an exasperated sigh.

“Look Morrigan, I’m a Grey Warden now – the taint is consuming me. Before drinking a shameful amount of liquor was enough to abate that which I cannot control. The poison it’s… it is more potent, yes, but it keeps me aware – albeit effete. I can’t very well be prancing about the battlefield drunk off my ass, attempting to seduce every damsel or darkspawn that crosses my path, now can I? Because that’s how I get when I drink – in case you didn’t know. Anyone and everyone; all on the menu.” She shakes her head, offering up a feeble laugh. “Besides, I think the taint took the whole ‘go on like this forever’ argument out of my hands, Morrigan.”

“How very comforting; of the two Grey Wardens left to conquer the Blight, Ferelden is to rely on a wanton tease resigned to her own death and an imbecile whom follows his junior recruit around like a love-struck puppy, incapable of making a single decision for himself no matter how elementary. How truly heartening; ‘tis a wonder I worry at all after your state of being. Perhaps you should simply fall on your sword now as you so wish and Alistair can carry Ferelden to salvation.”

“Morrigan…”

“Would it not be simpler to embrace the gift—”

“Morrigan!” Lethe snaps. “You barely acknowledge my presence or our past. You wouldn’t have even come along with us on this journey had Flemeth not all but pushed you into my arms. You have _no_ right to worry about my state of being. You do not realize what you ask.” Half turning in pursuit of silence she becomes detached. Within the pause for breath, Morrigan witnesses the frolicsome young woman from her childhood become the austere warden of the Grey. _Thedas’ warden of deliverance_. Voiced more inexorable than Morrigan had ever witnessed, but scarcely above a whisper, Lethe proclaims, “I _will not_ relent control.”

Morrigan watches her fully turn and stride towards the fisherman at the rear of the boat, patting him on the shoulder. Lethe gestures towards the tiller and he stands, allowing her to take his place. She smiles at whatever words he has to offer her and she does not look back towards the woman that she left behind.

“Perhaps mother was right about some things.”

* * *

  **???**

**_Focus on the pain. The pain is real. The pain means you’re still alive… alive… alive…_ **

_You hear the echo of the familiar female voice, but it is breathless – strained with torment. Unable to determine where it is originating from at your velocity you slow, angling your wings earthbound. Swooping in for a landing, you concentrate on the stretching of your limbs as black feathered wings extend into slender pale arms and nimble talons elongate into feet._

_As the smoke clears you gaze around you. Blurred juniper, a faltering mimicry of warbles, a gnarled odor of brimstone and something else… something sweet. Something wrong._

_“You’re getting to be a bit too old for these little trips of foolhardy fancy; aren’t you, girl?”_

_Blast and damnation. No. No, not you._

_“Why don’t you stay and cook dinner with your mother? I would enjoy the company, dear.”_

_A smile. A sick smile. It’s wrong._

_“Where is she, Mother? Something is amiss. What have you done?” Your words are audible, but you don’t remember expressing them. You feel the panic rising within you._

_You look around you but you can’t focus on your surroundings, the expanse seems never-ending._

_The reverberation of a laugh._

_“Me? Why would I have done anything? You know I adore you dear sweet girls…”_

_Wrong. This is wrong._

**_Focus… Focus, the pain… the pain, it means that you are stronger._ **

_“There she is again… Lethe!” Lethe where are you? You try to shout out to her but your throat constricts. You grasp helplessly at your neck, panic spiraling further._

_“This is your life now, girl. She left you, she is gone. It is just you and me now. Am I not enough for you, dear girl?”_

_You look back into the pits that are your mother’s eyes. That smile, that revolting smile is back. She holds her arms out towards you in an embrace. You struggle to evade her but you are frozen in place as she crushes you tightly to her bosom; and then at once you smell it again. Not just the sulfuric stench of dragon’s fire that you have come to associate with your mother but that perfumed sweetness from earlier. You try to remember where you have smelled that before and suddenly it hits you. You pull away._

_No, this is wrong!_

_You can feel your voice slowly coming back to you. Nothing about this place feels like any of the innumerous times you have roamed the endless contours of the Fade before. Previously capable of bending the world around you to your every whim, you now find it difficult even to speak._

_“I know not what you are, foul spirit, but you are no mother of mine. Now I will ask you once more, where is Lethe?”_

_The stinging of a slap across your cheek._

_Pain. You think of her. A small tear tickling at the corner of your eye. Is she in pain?_

_Various cloudy images of her quiver before you. Ghostly frames depict her smiling into the face of a captivated elven woman; another reenacts a night of passion, wrists tied to posts atop a bed laden with coin; others of a war, of death and fallen kings, of blood dripping down her chin, of blackness; and more still of her crying alone. Crying alone within a forest of trees as a young girl, crying alone below the leaking hull of a ship, crying alone in an extravagant castle ringed by dead, crying alone within a bare tent shadowed by passing figures..._

_“How many times do I have to tell you, girl?” The voice dissipates the apparitions that had begun to flood you. The tear that had been stranded at the corner of your eye falls. “To care for another is to be weak, if you allow yourself—”_

_A dog’s growl._

_Bark… Bark. Bark._

_A streak of chestnut hammers to the ground before you. The mabari rips mercilessly at the neck of the being that has taken your mother’s form._

_The spirit whisks away._

_“Gabriel?”_

_An answering bark._

_“You even follow me around in the Fade, do you?”_

_He barks again._

_“Well, it is good to know that even within the Fade some things never change.”_

_Recognizing the rescue for what it was, you pat him gratefully, scratching behind his ears._

_“Don’t let it go to your head.”_

_Another bark accompanied by an excessive amount of tail wagging. You roll your eyes._

_“Come. We must recover Lethe. She is lost in dreams.”_

* * *

 

**9:30 Dragon**

They pass the time in silence. Occasionally the fisherman says a few things but Lethe does not reply – her civility at an end. Lethe had grown restless as they coasted their way closer to the Circle of Magi. Eventually, she retired from her positon at the rear of the boat to pace along the side railing, allowing the fisherman to reclaim his role of navigator.

As the hours elapse and the tremendous imposing tower draws near Morrigan remembers something. Staring down in the direction of the lower deck she realizes the chantry sister has yet to stir – her slumber long seeping into the hours set aside for Lethe. When Morrigan looks back up her eyes are met by Lethe’s shadowed inscrutable inspection.

“This journey has been harder on her than on us.” Lethe says flatly, answering Morrigan’s unspoken question. “She needs the extra rest.”

“She should not have come if she was unable to keep up,” Morrigan counters, allowing rancor to stress her words but taming her expression to appear indifferent.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give her a hard time about it later,” Lethe professes with a devilish smirk.

Maintaining her apathy, Morrigan asks, “And what of yourself?”

Lethe shrugs, turning away from Morrigan and breaking off eye contact.

“I don’t sleep much as it is.”

Morrigan’s brows shoot up; she is, however, not surprised by this admission. In fact, she had known it to be true for quite some time – sleep deprivation evident in Lethe's dark circles and cagey carriage. She merely had not imagined Lethe would be so remarkably honest about it. With Lethe still turned away from her, Morrigan allows herself a small tender smile. Before responding she readjusts her countenance to a vague sneer, feeling safeguarded within the familiar defense.

 “Well that explains why your temper has been so testy as of late.”

Lethe pivots immediately to react to Morrigan's crack. Same impenetrable scrutiny belied by a mirthful flicker in her eyes. She reaches Morrigan in five long-legged strides.

 “I’m sorry, my what?”

Morrigan smirks – not as tender as before now that Lethe's eyes are searching her own but genuine all the same. Lethe cannot resist and returns it, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Leliana emerges from below deck, pausing at the top of the stairs to glance between them.

Chuckling, Lethe opens her mouth to speak – likely to retaliate Morrigan's jab with one of her own. _An old pastime favorite;_ Morrigan recollects. However, noticing Leliana in her peripherals, she stops herself. Within the lull both women look upon the newly present redhead expectantly.

“Am I interrupting?” Leliana asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and fighting a yawn.

“No, in fact I was just about to come check on you. I thought surely you must have caught whatever it is that has infected Arl Eamon and fallen into a terrible life-threatening coma of your own. We’ll arrive at the hold’s landing pier momentarily.”

Caught gawking at the backhanded disparagement, Leliana straightens quickly, blinking away her astonishment.

“I—I hadn’t realized I had been asleep for so long… I apologize.”

“No need, just gather your things.” Leliana nods and scurries down the stairs. “Oh and wake Gabe; the lazy bum has been snoozing for nearly the whole voyage,” Lethe calls after her, shaking her head with a grin.

Lethe ventures a glimpse over to Morrigan, raising her eyebrows in inquiry. Feigning disinterest, Morrigan shrugs; internally skeptical of the relationship developing between the two women and generally doubtful of Lethe’s candor.

Surfacing once again –  this time with Gabe in tow and her pack slung over her shoulder – Leliana makes her way over to the fisherman’s side. She thanks him for his hospitality – _no doubt promising some fabricated reward to be bestowed upon him by her maker;_ Morrigan thinks bitterly to herself. Lethe nods her thanks from where she stands and the three women, trailed by the lone mabari, traverse the stretch of docks towards the looming tower.

The walk is long, making it clear they wish the mages inaccessible to the rest of society and, more than likely, altogether forgotten about. An ill-boding apprehension fills Morrigan as she gazes upward at the expanse of the tower. The water slaps its last frigid taunts as the group arrives at the thick Circle of Magi doors – the adorning chantry symbols leering into Morrigan with a mocking irony. A shiver runs along her spine.

Upon entering Kinloch Hold Morrigan can feel it instantly – a nearly physical shift in the veil around them. Her uneasiness, now accompanied by bewilderment, escalates as a gathering of templars approach them. She doesn't have time to question the chaotic magic swirling in the air that occupies the room as an instinctual mania of self-preservation overtakes her. Mana cramps at her fingertips and seethes within her eyes. Lethe tenses beside her; _I wonder if she can feel it too? Or perhaps it is something else..._

They speak nonsense; it is a scene of ordinary templar incompetence, as far as Morrigan can tell. The Chantry and their simple-minded brutes attempted to control a force that they could not handle and it exploded upon them. And rightfully so. The wrinkling templar warns the group away but Lethe disregards him and his frets with fewer words than Morrigan herself would have used, simply pushing past them whilst cursing under her breath.

“ _Templar asshats. Sure, let’s just lock the doors and hope for the best. The Maker’s work, it is. It is, my ass.”_

Morrigan chuckles to herself at Lethe’s mumblings as they pass through the threshold of a second set of heavy double doors. A few steps in and she can hear the templars securely bar the doors behind them. _Cowards._

Lethe leads them around a winding hallway, her sword readied, prowling the dark quarters for signs of life. Morrigan can hear a faint whimpering behind her – whether from the dog or the chantry loon, she cannot tell.

The magic around them feels sickly – a distorted medley of hunger and desire; of rage and fear. She can sense the swell of pride at the justified liberation, only to be dampened by a sticky hesitation of fatalism.

In a matter of moments, they reach a magical barrier and find themselves sealed within a room of _children_ – _of all things, it had to be children_ – corralled and sniveling under the protection of an elderly mage. As they approach, it is that very same ancient woman whom addresses them – staff fixed threateningly on Lethe.

“Stop right there! Take another step, and I swear I will strike you down where you stand!”

“Okay; all right, look, here goes the sword.” Lethe sheathes her sword and offers up both of her hands in supplication, flashing the mage an alluring smile. “Harmless, see? We’re here to help.”

“Who are you, and what is your purpose here? Have the templars opened the door? Speak quickly – I’ll have no games.”

_Good to see someone isn’t fooled by Lethe’s coaxing charm._

“I wouldn’t worry about that, old woman,” Morrigan smirks. “Lethe isn’t much for playing games these days.”

Leliana arches a brow at Morrigan, puzzled by the seemingly randomness of her comment. Lethe, however, shoots a scalding glance over her shoulder before answering the mage’s question.

“I am a Grey Warden and, as I said, I’m here to help.”

“You’re not really offering to assist this preachy school mistress? To rescue these pathetic excuses for mages? They allow themselves to—” 

“Morrigan.” She cuts Morrigan off before continuing to confer with the circle mage. “Look, your Knight-Commander has sent for The Right of Annulment and I simply wish to prevent any more of this _holy slaughter of mages_ thing that the chantry passes off as righteousness.” 

“A warden, you say? Ah yes, Ostagar. I was one of the mages sent by the Circle to assist the King’s army; it is a relief to see that some of you yet survive. But why are you here? Why help us?”

“Because templars are power-hungry asshats,” Lethe smirks. “And because I need the mages to help in the fight against the coming Blight. Now, it’s not that I don’t want to stay and chat, but I hear you have yourself a little abomination infestation. Think you could destroy that barrier so my posse and I can be on our way?”

“I see, you came looking for aid and you have found that we are in no shape to do so. Very well; if you intend on saving this Circle, I will dispel the barrier. Let us go end this.”

“I’m sorry – us?”

“I know the tower, and I know what we face. And if the Circle is indeed lost and all the mages dead, I would see this for myself.”

Lethe says nothing for a few moments, appearing to weigh whether or not it was worth disputing before nodding her concession.

“Thank you,” Wynne replies. “Alone, I would probably have fallen to the demons myself, but with your help, we have a chance for success.” Wynne leads the party over to the shimmering magical barrier. “Here we are. You know; you look awfully familiar. Were you a mage here at the tower before recruited as a Grey Warden?”

“I’ve never been to Kinloch Hold before today. You said you were at Ostagar, right? So was I. Perhaps we crossed paths there.” Wynne looks ready to ask a follow-up question but Lethe blurts out, rather rudely, “What are you waiting for? Destroy the barrier so we can be on with it. People to save, evil to slay; remember?”

“All right. Be on your guard…”

* * *

  **The Fade**

_The grass wilts away to nonexistence and every sound is hollow. An ethereal mists threads between your legs. You leave the imitation Korcari Wilds behind you._

_The landscape around you responds more to your rationale now that you apperceive where you are. You utilize your desires as a means to manipulate the scene around you – to a degree, at least. This is still the demon’s realm._

_I want to find Lethe._

_There is a clear path laid out before you._

_The dog saunters beside you, an incessant whimper leaving his lips. It is impossible to tell how long or how far the two of you have walked. The uncertainty enervates you._

_“Oh hush, we will find her. Your tiresome blubbering will do her no good. It will, perhaps, gain us the unwanted attention of the one that is keeping us here, however.”_

_Two more whimpers._

_“I said quiet, you mongrel.”_

_A dark rain-heavy cloud rolls in to encompass the entirety of the sky above. In seconds a downpour begins. A bolt of lightning flashes the world blind, a crack of thunder shakes the very foundation. You open your eyes and everything is remade._

_You are within a forest again, but not the Korcari._

_Another whimper behind you; this time you do not scold him for you are every bit as frightened. This is not your doing._

_“Be ready, Gabriel.”_

_A second bolts plunges into the tree line simultaneously with a clap of thunder; you feel the shock rattle your body and dumbfound your senses. Your vision dances but you manage to view Lethe and someone – or something – else huddled and scrambling for shelter towards a cave opening._

**_In here, Lethe. We’ll be safe in here…_ **

_The voice isn’t familiar to you. Without thinking you and Gabe sprint for the cave opening, towards Lethe. By the time you reach it you are positively drenched. Inside you find Gabe erratically bouncing about Lethe, oblivious to the second woman – an elf._

_“Lethe,” you pant breathlessly. “What the hell is going on?”_

_“Oh, hello Morrigan.” She turns to you, smiling gaily. “This is my friend, Lyna. She found me wandering the forest after I slipped those Lothering templars. She’s helping me with my dagger and bow work. I think I’ve gotten quite superb.”_

_The elf – Lyna – moves closer. “No, just cockier,” she replies, moving a stray wet bang out of Lethe’s face._

_“Oh, is that it, you think, lethallin?” Lethe smiles down at the elf._

_The elf laughs in response and Lethe’s smile spreads. An open, unguarded smile. You haven’t seen her smile like that since you were children._

_“Lethe, a moment, if you would.”_

_You don’t give her time to answer; you grab her arm and walk her closer to the cave opening. The ongoing rainfall drowns out your conversation._

_“Lethe, we must get out of here.”_

_“Well, yes, of course we do, Morrigan. You think I don’t know that?”_

_You breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps this will be easier than you thought._

_“When the storm passes we’ll need to head out immediately for any chance of making it back to camp before nightfall.”_

_Your thoughts stall. Damn._

_“No, Lethe, that is not what I mean. None of this is real. This is the Fade, you remember the Fade, don’t you?” You’ve never been one for skirting the issue._

_“I—I, yes. Yes, I… I know.”_

_A swirl of darkness clouds over her eyes. She turns away from you to stare off into the falling rain._

_“Then you understand we must escape this place anon!”_

_She turns to you, anguish smearing her features. Her mouth sputters, searching for words. She gives up with a dejected nod of her head._

_Suddenly, a petrifying scream pierces the air. It came from further within the caves._

_“Leeeeethe!”_

_Lethe frantically looks over to where Lyna had been a moment ago. She is gone._

_“Lyna! No! No, no, no.”_

_Lethe races deeper into the cave, venturing towards the echo of Lyna’s outcry. Gabe goes bounding after her._

_“Lethe wait—!” You grunt in frustration but ultimately follow after them. Dead spiders litter the hallways –  from the looks of it freshly killed. Roots have broken up the floor tiling, making swift travel difficult. When at last you find them in an end chamber Lethe is crouched, shadowed by an enormous standing mirror and holding a small limp body enwrapped within her arms._

_“No, not this again… Please, I don’t want to see this again!” Lethe’s face contorts in the throes of agony._

_“It’s okay, lethallin, you were meant for other things… greater things…” The whisper painfully leaves the elf’s bloodied lips._

_“Please…” Lethe chokes out between sobs._

_“You are now free to fulfill your destiny… ma vhenan…”_

_Lethe clutches the lifeless elven woman closer. A few aching minutes pass before Lethe slowly releases Lyna – gently placing her upon the cold, hard dirt. As the tears dry, the blackness swarms._

**_I made you happy and safe. I gave you peace._ **

_She unleashes a wail of fury and stands. Unsure of what to do, you do not move. Her eyes are pure obsidian. What does that mean; you wonder._

_“Is this what you want?! Huh?! Is this what you want from me, demon?!”_

_A burst of light fills the room, leaving your sight overtaken by white splotches. While pondering what that might have been, a crash of thunder louder than any other has your ears ringing._

_Of course – you find yourself thinking – none of this is going to be easy._

_You feel a soft tongue lick at your fingers._

_Your vision clears enough for you to recognize Gabe beside you, but Lethe is gone. You gaze down and see the stiff elven form still lying on the ground below you._

_Only then do you notice the delicate hands harboring a large sword hilt, pulsing with shifting energy, decorated with a gem of a detailed carving of a hawk snatching up a hare. As you move closer the body whisks away._

* * *

**9:30 Dragon**

The blood mage flees, clambering back the way the group has thus far trekked, her former companions dead at their feet.

“ _The Rose of Orlais,”_ Wynne reads the title of the book Lethe hands to her. “I know what it is,” she says, slipping the novel into her satchel. “You remind me of an Orlesian mage who came to Kinloch Hold in my youth.”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lethe asks over her shoulder, absorbed in the task of combing through the various dead mages’ belongings.

“She ran away from the Circle after the First Enchanter at the time – Remille – was discovered to be conspiring with Orlais.”

“Are you talking to me?” Lethe stands, resting her hands on her hips as she switches her focus to the elderly mage, inadvertently thrusting her chest out. Morrigan’s eyes trace the swell of the warden’s breasts despite herself. Scandalized, Morrigan glances away. Her eyes fall upon the chantry sister, and Morrigan notices she is doing the same – only Lethe catches her gaze, raising her brows as she smirks at the redhead’s attentions. Leliana blinks hard, tearing her eyes away as a pronounced blush spreads across her cheeks.

“All of her fellow mages vilified her for the simple fact that she was born Orlesian,” Wynne continues as if uninterrupted. “Even the templars kept an extra close eye on her. It eventually became too much and she fled the tower.”

“Mhm,” Lethe rolls her eyes. “Well, since I’m not Orlesian and I don’t think I can _avoid_ being a Grey Warden or that I particularly want to I’m going to assume you’re just reminiscing out loud – isn’t that what old people do? Or perhaps you’re preforming a dramatic monologue on xenophobia?”

Morrigan smiles as the group continues its’ way around the tower, heading into the hall.

Wynne chuckles. “Very funny. Interestingly enough, she also used evasive humor to alleviate stressful situations. What I was going to say was that even though she was bitter about being culturally alienated – so markedly different – at the end of the day, what she was most remembered for was how touched she had been. She liked to act like she was unaffected in front of others but in private she could always be caught comforting the new apprentices and the templar’s battered victims – some of which had been slandering her mere hours earlier.”

Lethe ascends the stairs to the third floor, turning when reaching the top to address Wynne.

“Still lost. I thought you said she jumped ship because people bullied her.”

“She fled the Circle because she found herself too compassionate for a world so unforgiving. There has always been strife; there always will be opposition for those drawn to do good. You cannot change who the Maker has made you to be, however, you can hopelessly struggle against it. Fight it, or accept it and be the best possible you. I believe she was capable of wonderful things, capable of helping a great many people. Instead, well…” Wynne trails off, eyes gazing distantly into the past. Silence passes over the party. Lethe trots ahead, distancing herself from the others.

Morrigan finds herself rolling her eyes. _I knew she would be the preachy type._

Abominations, demons, and charmed templars flock the corridors. Lethe and Gabe take most of the heat in battle as Leliana, Wynne, and Morrigan launch projectiles from a distance. Lethe is a bloody mess by the time the last enemy hits the floor. Exploration of the tower has gone much this way since they began their enterprise and oddly enough, Lethe has not fatigued or slowed down in the slightest. If anything, she has pressed the party onward at brisker rate.

Wynne sighs as she approaches Lethe, hands glowing with restoration magic.

“And how much of this is your blood, young lady?”

“It’s fine. I feel great. Really it’s fine, as long as we still have plenty of Mabari Crunches – isn’t that right, boy?”

Gabe barks and the two spring forward, dismissing Wynne’s concern. She sighs again.

“ _Children…”_

“What happened to her?” Leliana walks up alongside Wynne. “The mage. Was she… Killed?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” Wynne answers, eyes on Lethe’s back. “I never saw or heard word of her again.”

Sobering, Leliana droops her head.

“Well, she may be alive out there, somewhere. _Free_ ,” Lethe mutters from ahead. “Shit, Arcane Horror!”

Sounds of sorcery can be heard from up ahead but Lethe is too far away for the group to provide any immediate assistance. As they reach Lethe she is gleamed by a thin layer of frost, blood frozen beneath her nostrils, and the previously spoken of Arcane Horror dead at her feet.

“It’s _cool_ , guys; I got it.” She levels her smirk first at Leliana before winking at Wynne. “Get it? _Cool._ Since I’m cover in ice. Another point for me.”

Wynne crosses her arms. “Is there freedom in running?” she asks through a scowl.

“Oh, right where we left off, I see. Good. Please continue, I’d _really_ love to know where all this is going.” Lethe jogs up the next flight of stairs.

“If she is alive she will always have to lie about who she is. Is there freedom in hiding? Who can she help when she is always looking over her shoulder? How can she trust and find comfort in others when she is suspicious of discovery?”

“Maybe she should live for herself.” Lethe stops and turns to face the others. “Maybe she doesn’t need anybody but herself. She shouldn’t have to help anyone. Maybe the world doesn’t deserve the good she could offer after it treated her so deplorably.”

“And I believe that is exactly why she fled.” Wynne takes her first careful step up the stairs, a little out of breath. “But what of those others that life has treated unfairly? Who is to help them when they need it most? Are they not the ones who grow to become the most formidable of heroes?”

Lethe shrugs. “Well, like you said, she’s probably dead. No point in pining over what might have been. Life goes on.” Lethe halts her advance as a look of repulsion spans her face. “Speaking of dead…” She brings her left forearm up to cover her nose. “What is that smell?” 

* * *

  **The Fade**

_The overwhelming aroma of decadent perfume and spiced wine, piles of gold and a jeweled goblet atop a side table, and an opulent bed – also harboring heaps of sovereigns. A diamond slips from the fine-woven silken sheets to the floor below with a resonant ding. You see her, but Lethe doesn’t look your way. She’s a bit… preoccupied._

_You roll your eyes as far back as they go._

_A dark-skinned woman climbs over top of Lethe, half her weight lounging on an elbow and the other half on Lethe. The woman is completely naked as far as you can tell. You look away. So is Lethe. Both women’s breathing comes ragged and small beads of sweat sheen their bare bodies. You don’t think you have the stomach to interpose yourself. You feel Gabe’s broad head butt at the back of your thigh, urging you forward._

_“No—I… No. I grow awfully tired of rescuing your imprudent master. Let her extricate her damn self; if you are so insistent, you go! I think I may be sick…” You turn away from Gabe, crossing your arms as you watch the unfortunate scene unfold before you in horror and feel as paralyzed as you did earlier when staring down your own demon._

_“So the piracy, the plundering, the violence, the seduction of innocents, and the excessive drinking… But you draw the line at slavery?”_

_The woman’s idle hand plays with one of Lethe’s nipples._

_Lethe shrugs. “Don’t know much about freedom, but everyone deserves the chance to find it. You know, define what it is for them.” She takes a deep swallow from the goblet before flashing her most charming smile. The woman straddles Lethe’s hips, softly nipping at her ear then moving on to her chin. “But what do I know?”_

_“Being a pirate is the definition of freedom!” The woman slips a hand between Lethe’s legs as she traces her throat with sensuous kisses before descending down upon her exposed chest._

_“Is that what you think,_ bella _?” Lethe drawls out the term of endearment with a pronounced imitation of an Antivan accent, eyes closing as she revels in the woman’s teasing ministrations._

_The woman she is with giggles. “You realize Castillon will find us eventually.”_

_“Not if we keep running.” Her reply is absentminded but the woman straightens, appearing hesitant._

_“Maybe we should go back. See if there’s some task or something we could do to make him forget about it.”_

_“As a_ free _woman, you are_ free _to do whatever you want.” Lethe puts emphasis on the two words, chuckling at the look of reproach and gentle swat she receives. The woman’s face quickly softens._

_"But you won’t come with?”_

_Lethe sits up, pulling the woman into a kiss. The sheets fall from her body, granting you an eyeful you didn’t particularly want. You turn away, feeling your cheeks redden._

_"I—I think it’s time I returned home…” Lethe throws her legs over the side of the bed and stands. She walks a couple of steps before she pauses – as if not able to remember where she was going._

_**"You want to leave? Can't you think about someone other than yourself? I'm hurt, so very, very hurt."** _

_The woman’s voice is underlain with the rumbling, intonation of depravity._

_Lethe turns to face the woman, confusion scrambling her features. “Wait, what did you just say? No, that’s—that’s not right. That’s not what she said…”_

_You feel your agitation bubbling._

_**"Come back to bed. I'll do better this time. I'll make you much happier."** _

_Lethe’s smile returns, a fog of bewitchment glazes over her eyes. “Well, I can hardly refuse—”_

_That’s it. You snap. Your fingertips sizzle._

_You fire an effortless lightning bolt at the creature in bed; she shrieks. Her form spasms into that of a desire demon before disintegrating into the sheets._

_Lethe’s vision clears and she jumps as she sees you for the first time, her breasts bouncing at the sudden movement. “What—who—!”_

_You storm over to her._

_“Damn it, Lethe! Put some bloody clothes on!”_

_Lethe grabs for the nearby sheet. You watch as she drapes the nearly sheer fabric around her body._

_“The Fade, Lethe. The blasted Fade, remember?” Gabe scampers up beside her, jubilantly licking Lethe’s hand._

_“Oh, hey boy… Now isn’t this embarrassing…” Lethe seems bashful, perhaps genuinely embarrassed as she said. Not something you’ve witnessed often. “So… The Fade, huh? What’s the plan?”_

_“We have to defeat the demon in his domain for any hope of escaping,” you answer her point-blank. You have grown so very tired of this trip to the Fade._

_“Ah, yes, yes. Right, the demon... The desire demon?”_

_“Sloth.”_

_“Of course, of course – sloth.” You cross your arms and search around you, not sure what you are looking for – something, anything to help you out of this dismal situation. “So are we going to talk about what just happen—”_

_“No.”_

_You give up and begin stalking away. Not in any particular direction, just away. Away from Lethe, her idiocy, and her barely concealed naked body._

_“All right, fair enough. Wait, what about Leliana? And… What was her name? My head still feels a little hazy.”_

_You pause to glare at Lethe over your shoulder. “I’m sure I haven’t the fainted idea what you’re talking about. ‘Tis just the two of us.”_

_A whimper._

_You sigh._

_“And Gabriel.”_

_Perhaps, you think, you will get lucky and she will forget about your companions as easily as she has forgotten where she has placed her clothing. You smirk to yourself._

_But, alas, life is cruel. She laughs – a resounding laugh – the likes of which causes her breasts to shake once more._

_“Come on, Morrigan, we’ve got to save Leliana and – Wynne, that’s right – Wynne.”_

**_But what of your family, little Lethe?_ **

_The small hairs at the back of your neck stand. You turn to face Lethe._

**_I thought you said you wanted to return home…_ **

_A schism of conflict shudders behind Lethe’s eyes. “What?” she mutters from tightly clamped lips. That same darkness shows itself again._

**_Were you able to save them?_ ** ****

_Lethe gasps and the room around you flutters away._

_“_ _For the love of—Blast and damnation,” you curse. You find yourself wondering if it is better or worse that you are being swept away with her this time. On the one hand, you will not need to seek her out. On the other…_

_When the backdrop establishes itself you are within a castle. A grand castle. You recognize it from an earlier illusion. You take a look around._

_The dead are everywhere – mostly guards, some unarmed lords and ladies, and many servants. You spot Gabe miserably nudging the deceased body of a young boy. Lethe is not much further away. She stands despondent. She is in her leathers now and her eyes burn as a luminous abyss. She falls to her knees._

_“No…”_

_A hand materializes on her shoulder, belonging to the phantasm of a bearded, muscular man._

_"There is nothing you can do for them now,” he says, voice echoing through the halls. “We must leave. It is what your parents wanted.”_

_“Don’t touch me!” Lethe jerks to her feet. “Get away from me!”_

_“_ _You cannot defeat his entire army! We must leave!”_

 _"What do you know?!” Her eyes black-out. She draws her sword._

_The man grabs hold of her, speaking in a bellowing roar – she struggles against him._

_“_ _I will not tell you again. Your parents are already lost. Your family is dead.”_

_**You ran when they needed you most. You weren’t there to save them. How can you hope to save anyone?** _ ****

_Lethe drops her sword and collapses into his arms. Her eyes close and tears fall from her face._

_“I must fight,” she repeatedly whispers through her weeping. “I must…” The man holds her for a moment before speaking._

_“Come; I will have what your parents promised me.”_

_When at last she opens her eyes they are lackluster and bleak, but no longer of a foreign ebony._

_The man brings Lethe to her feet. When she stands on her own he hands her a chalice. She blindly takes it from him._

_“Just let me die…” She lifts it to her mouth._

_Well, this is just unacceptable. Once again you find yourself interceding on her behalf as you cast a sphere of magical energy, knocking the chalice from her hands._

_The man zeros in on you and draws his swords. Blast. You ready yourself for the battle._

_Before he reaches you Lethe’s blade comes piercing through his chest, his body sinks to the floor._

_She peers down at him from an expressionless tear-stained face._

_“Why?” she whispers. “Why must the demons be so ruthlessly unrelenting…” Another tear falls from her face. It is difficult to see her like this. You don’t know what to say; will she allow herself to be comforted?_

_“Everyone has their own personal demons.” Your voice is small when it comes. Gabe lets out a heart-rending howl. The body of the boy evaporates. “I suppose some people simply have more to atone for than others.”_

_Lethe manages a vacuous nod, unseeing gaze staring right through you. “How did you escape yours?” she asks._

_“In truth? Now, don’t let me catch you repeating this, but, ‘twas Gabriel. I may very well owe the mutt my freedom.”_

_Lethe laughs, wiping the fallen tears from her face._

_"Thank you, Morrigan.”_

* * *

  **9:30 Dragon**

Corruption not unlike the darkspawn's. The fourth floor reeks of death and vulgar, redolent magic. Between that and the comment Lethe just made, Morrigan began to legitimately regret her decision to come along.

She watches as Lethe throws Leliana a clandestine wink.

“Well, you do have nice _breasts,”_ Morrigan tersely asserts, wishing greatly for this whole discussion to be over and done with already. “If one were to judge such a thing.” The sister quickly looks away.

Lethe laughs, grinning up at her from a toothy simper as she extracts her blade from between the steel plates of the dead templar’s armor.

“Well someone can’t keep her eyes off me. Hey, do me a favor, Morrigan – if I’m ever drooling under the control of some demon, babbling words of children and rubbish – stick a sword through my face.”               

Morrigan is eternally grateful at the turn in conversation. “Apparently you can get your desire and still suffer horridly. ‘Tis truly a lesson for all who consider marriage.”               

“You’re not wrong,” she chuckles, sifting through the contents of a nearby vanity. “ _Sun Blonde Vint-1.”_ She raises the bottle into the air. “A toast; to the Templar and his demon bride. May their love last through death and all the way to the Maker’s side in the Golden City!”               

“You two are absolutely wicked,” Wynne glowers as she turns to exit the room.

Leliana focuses her eyes on Lethe. “ _You’re not wrong._ ” She follows after Wynne.                 

“It was a _joke_. It’s _funny_!” Lethe rolls her eyes as the two women take their leave. “Whatever, funny people would think it’s funny… You think it’s funny, don’t you, boy?” He silently wags his tail. “I’ll take that as a yes.”               

Lethe places the bottle in her satchel and leisurely strolls after them.               

“Lethe, do you sincerely believe Alistair will be capable of striking the boy down if the need arises? I find it more likely we shall return to find the boy escaped and Alistair none-the-wiser.”               

“Is it terrible that I honestly _do not_ care?” Lethe sighs. “I’m just so tired… Tired of this—”               

 **Wouldn’t you like to just lay down and… forget about all this? Leave it all behind?**

“Did you hear that?” Lethe asks, abruptly alert. “Where are Wynne and Leliana?”               

Morrigan shrugs; _on the subject of not caring…_                

“Resist. You must resist, else we are all lost…”               

Lethe equips her sword.               

“That was Wynne! Come on, Morrigan – it sounds like they need us.”               

“And I suppose you expect me to give chase and rescue their careless hides. Why bother, I say.”               

Lethe’s brows furrow at Morrigan’s remark; she turns and charges valiantly in the direction of the commotion – into the Great Hall. Piqued, Morrigan rolls her eyes, reluctantly trailing after the warden.               

“ _All of this heroism is really beginning to try my patience…_ ” Morrigan mutters to herself.               

**Why do you fight? You deserve more… You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you.**

* * *

**The Fade**                

 _The searing pain of a dagger between your ribs. Your vision dims at the edges. You’re lying on something numbingly cold – a stone floor, perhaps. The chantry wench stands over-top of you._

_"See, my Leliana, I know you… Now, dispatch the other filthy dog—and her mabari.”_

_A laugh. A vicious and arrogant laugh. An Orlesian laugh. The sound seems to wander away from you._

_Lethe and Gabe stand on the other side of you, menacing growls radiating from them both. They might be saying something, you don’t know. Wynne ducks beside you, a few crimson scratches sully her robes._

_Your head tingles, the world feels far away. Your abdomen flares; a runnel of blood drips from your lips down your neck._

_Clanging of metal. Everything’s murky. You find it so easy to sleep…_

_Silence._

_A scream wakes you._

_Someone speaks a muted name near you. Is it your name?_

_Your heart beats faster, it hammers at your breastbone._

_“Morrigan… Morrigan!”_                

 _You can’t remember where you are. Your body racks and tenses. Your lungs don’t take in air. Something heavy on your chest..._

_“—Morrigan!”_

_Chilled fingertips on your arm._

_Silence again._

_Stark warmth creeps into your body, travels down your arms and legs._

_Relief grips your wounds._

_Your senses are overcome. Harsh; everything is too much._

_Your weary head presses heavily into the stone below. Urgent, clamorous noise pounds at your ears, indistinguishable. A dazzling beacon of unknown origin punishes your eyes; you find it arduous to open them. A damp, clammy nose at your cheek._

_Lethe’s euphonious voice cuts through the rabble._

_“Leliana…” It is beautiful and it is heartbreaking; it is desperately imploring. You crack open your eyes. Lethe stands radiant, positioned between the redhead and the rest of you. She sheathes her sword and approaches Leliana slowly. She’s impeded by the point of a dagger at her chest. “Please, there is no hope, otherwise… Trust in what you know. Remember your vision? It guides you to do what’s right. Please remember…”_

_“My… My vision?” Leliana’s arm slackens as her thoughts race. “No—no, the Maker has abandoned us! He does not care enough to interfere in our lives!” The rigid expanse of her arm straightens, pushing farther into Lethe’s leather vest._

_Instead of pulling away, Lethe comes closer. “That’s not true, Leliana. You know in your heart that that’s not true!” Leliana’s arm remains taut. Lethe does not wince as the dagger’s razor tip breaches her chest. You cannot believe how gently she pleads. “Tell me more about your vision.” She places a tender hand on Leliana’s own. “_ Please.”

_Uncertainty visibly washes over Leliana, eyes glimmering with emotion. She wrenches her gaze from Lethe and relaxes her arm. You feel yourself release the breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Wynne and Gabe seem to do the same._

_“I had a dream,” she whispers, glancing back to Lethe to study her face. Lethe’s eyes scour hers. There is a – you search for the right word… an intimacy there – a connection, of sorts._

_Leliana continues. “In it there was an impenetrable darkness... it was so dense, so real. And there was a noise, a terrible, ungodly noise… I stood on a peak and watched as the darkness consumed everything… and when the storm swallowed the last of the sun’s light, I… I fell, and the darkness drew me in…” She seems to choke on the words as they leave her mouth, taking a moment to clear her throat before she goes on._

_“When I awoke from my dream, I went to the chantry’s garden, as I always do. But that day, the rosebush in the corner had flowered… Everyone knew that bush was dead, but there it was – a single, beautiful rose…”_

_Your eyelids feel heavy. The chantry sister’s description has your body aching for the peace of darkness, hushing you to sleep. You cannot follow the conversation; you miss a few of the words passed. Listening has become exceedingly strenuous. The lure is strong; you feel yourself drift…_

_“Maybe,” Lethe’s voice rouses you awake; it is hollow, shaky,_ _treacherous. “Maybe I’m the impenetrable darkness…” You hear the tears in her voice; a psyche on the brink of shattering._

_“No…” Leliana’s voice drops to the slightest of whispers. She turns from Lethe, as if confiding in herself. “‘Even in the midst of this darkness, there is hope and beauty...’” She shifts to face Lethe once more. “You are the rose."_

_You succumb wholly to the darkness._

* * *

  **9:30 Dragon**

_Utter exhaustion._

Each and every one of them have been through a laborious ordeal on the body and mind. Morrigan can still feel the uncomfortable pull at her stomach where the dagger had sunk in. The fact of the matter was that they had another fight coming – one which they all needed to be at their foremost for; _but she will have words with that chantry wench._

Surveying the group, Morrigan believes she may be in the best condition of them all – _and she had been stabbed_. However, she had not been conscious for the final confrontation of the sloth demon and thus she had no way of knowing how trying that had been.

Wynne limps up to Lethe as Leliana hangs behind, eyes studying the tiles of the floor.

“The Harrowing Chamber lies ahead,” Wynne claims. “What we find may not be pretty, but we must press on. A child’s life hangs in the balance.”

“He might be dead,” Lethe murmurs. “I don’t know how long we’ve been… _distracted_.”

Lethe looks the absolute worst of the lot; drudging along the remaining stretch of hallway like she might break at any moment. Her eyes still danced with the reflection of ghosts and most strangely – a third birthmark, a tiny scorch mark-looking divot singed under her eye next to the other two.

And as they round the last corner leading to top of the tower, one trial too many pushes Lethe over the edge.

“It’s… it’s you! How far they must have delved into my thoughts…” The man who speaks is a young templar, caged and shaking within a magical prison. “Sifting through my regrets…” he continues his weeping, “Tormenting me with my earliest failing. Using my shame against me…”

Lethe, in an uncharacteristic move, silently gapes on in abject trepidation.

“And to think I once thought we were too hard on them; we should have been _harder_ on our _prisoners_ —”

It takes Lethe only a moment to react, expectantly coming to the defense of the defenseless as Morrigan knew she would.

“They were never your prisoners!” Lethe’s eyes falter and her lip trembles anxiously, but her voice resonates true, if brusque. “Their lives were their own; although you would have them believe in their own victimhood – how else could you control them?”

Gabe growls at her side; _something significant rings clear in her words._ Morrigan finds herself intrigued.

“You don’t understand; you must kill them all!”

“I will not.” An angry tear falls from Lethe’s cheek. No one argues with her.

“You don’t know what they did, they’ve caged us like animals… looked for ways to break us—”

Morrigan can see the exact moment Lethe loses what self-restraint she had been clinging to; Lethe’s intense hatred of Templars shines through all else.

“You’ve been tortured?” her bombardment begins. “You mean the abused have turned on their conquerors? The kicked dogs have bitten back? The violated have found they are not so powerless? The _victims_ realized they are only victims if they believe your _lies_? _Good._ ” She practically spits out her last statement as she turns to leave him behind.

“You know nothing—!”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Lethe conveys with that same inexorable enmity that she had on the boat earlier this morning.

The warden takes the final steps up to the Harrowing Chamber two at a time, Gabe on her heels, and eyes threatening to submit to the darkness once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this is where we diverge from canon quite a bit. Long chapter much? I kept it ambiguous at the beginning, but yes, in case you haven’t guessed it this whole chapter was from Morrigan’s POV. Also, Lethe and Leliana’s chat in the Fade will remain a mystery to Morrigan for the time being, but eventually I will touch back on that and a couple of other vaguely mentioned things. Next chapter should be a shorter one. I understand if there are questions, feel free to shoot them my way!


	7. Redcliffe: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feelings are hard

Another ten hours across Lake Calenhad; this time Leliana didn’t sleep a wink. Two hours – a mere two hours they had spent at the tower. It had felt more like two days. Leliana’s pulse pounded violently in her head. She wasn’t entirely sure what had transpired within that cursed magical realm but her body was still reeling in the aftermath.

“Here,” Lethe says from beside her – the spot at Leliana’s side that the warden has not left since boarding. Leliana blinks, abstractedly accepting her canteen of water. “You look a little dehydrated – that’s about the worst thing you can let happen to you on an expedition.” Lethe releases a soft chuckle. “Other than like, you know, get stabbed or killed or something. Plus, it should help with the headache.” She gives Leliana a small, almost contrite, smile. It’s the first either of them have spoken since leaving the tower and she is taken aback by Lethe’s subdued mannerisms. Insecurity tugs at Leliana’s gut; _was it something I did during that horrible… What do I call it? Was it a dream?_

Leliana’s recollection of events was slowly straying its way back to her. She’d get flashes, but they were vague and they would sweep away as quickly as they had popped into her mind’s eye. Then she would begin to doubt whether they had been actual memories or figments of her imagination haphazardly attempting to fill in gaps. The more she would obsess and fret the more the details seemed to escape her, leaving Leliana with more uncertainty than before and only the shadow of a memory hauntingly eluding her at the back of her mind.

_Did any of this really happen or was it all a terrible nightmare?_

“Thank you,” Leliana murmurs before she takes a generous amount of water into her mouth, returning the canteen to Lethe’s careful hands. The faintest brush of her fingers has Leliana shivering, reliving a series of foggy occurrences.

_Lethe’s hand covering her own…Ally blood on her dagger…Morrigan lying unconscious on the ground…Cold arms embracing her as she sobs…_

“You were really fantastic over there; you know that?” Lethe’s voice breaks her free from her strangling ruminations. She swallows hard past the lump in her throat; _is that a… complement? From Lethe? Maybe I’m still dreaming…_

“You make a better tank than I do at any rate,” Lethe chuckles, offering Leliana one of her modest half-smiles. Her eyes – guileless and undisguised devastate her own with their scrupulous infiltrating; Leliana must look away to get her roaming thoughts to obey.

“How is Morrigan doing?” Leliana asks, feelings of guilt surfacing from the onslaught of her recent introspection.

 “Well, it’s good that she’s resting.” Lethe shrugs.  “I was just thinking to check on her actually.”

She stands and takes a few steps towards the descending stairs before ceasing at Leliana’s soft query, “How are you doing, Lethe?” It’s a hesitant question, one Leliana’s not sure she has a right to ask but Lethe’s recent complement has her feeling brave.

“I-I’ve been better.” Lethe attempts a reassuring smile, glancing over to Leliana. Her expression is removed. “I’ve also been worse. Don’t worry so much about me, sister.”

As Lethe resumes her stride, Leliana’s hushed voice halts her progression once again, “I wish you wouldn’t do that... _Call me that_. _Distance me_.” But the warden does not look her way. “I know how you feel about the Chantry – I may not quite understand it – but I’ve witnessed the contempt you hold for it. And I just wish you wouldn’t consider me in that same category without regard for particulars.” Leliana swallows another thick lump in her throat. “Also… _Thank you_.”

Lethe turns at last to look at her. “For what?”

Every time those tawny eyes seek her own Leliana finds it a little more difficult to breathe, to focus. _What was I saying?_

“Honestly, I’m not entirely sure… But I know I have you to thank – we all do.” She looks away from those searching eyes. “ _For the Fade_.”

Lethe shakes her head before a smirk cracks her face. “If you want to thank someone, thank Gabe,” she chuckles. “He’s the real hero.” Her smile stalls for a moment. “And Morrigan… But maybe keep some distance from her for the time being.”

She shuffles down the stairs before Leliana can say anything else. 

* * *

 

**9:37 Dragon**

“You know, I only realized the girl was a Cousland when they were erecting the statue here in the village.” Miriam takes a swig from her tea. “She was such a shy young thing; I don’t know how you ever got her to open up.”

“It was a slow process,” Leliana answers the elderly woman. “She wasn’t quick to trust my intentions.” Leliana pauses to sip from her steaming cup. She personally finds the weather outside a bit too warm for her to truly enjoy the heated beverage, but was glad to have something to occupy her jittery hands. “We were at the temple that houses Andraste’s sacred ashes.” Leliana mutters to herself, receiving a questioning brow from Miriam. She smiles distantly as she explains, “When I found out she was a Cousland.”

"Miriam, what can you tell us of the Warden. I understand she would assist you even before the Blight?” Cassandra asks, aiming to steer the conversation.

“Ah yes, the girl had a knack for herbs and medicines. At first when she was quite young she would merely gather plants and flowers for me. Over time I had shown her which could be used for botanic purposes and which were simply floral. Of the ones that couldn’t be used she would make little petal headbands,” Miriam laughs. “Odd to think she was a normal little girl like the rest of us at one point. I’ve still got a couple of them stored away, just couldn’t bring myself to dispose of them.” She pauses, taking a lengthy drink. “You know, I thought to make her my apprentice – even with her lacking bedside manners.” Miriam chuckles at her words and Leliana cannot help but smile along with her. “Mind you, I thought she simply a serving girl of the nearby estate. Had I known, well… either way, I was never given the opportunity. Years passed and I stopped thinking of her –  stopped mourning her presumed loss – and then of course came the Blight and with it the refugees…” She sighs as an affectionate smile takes to her face. “I almost didn’t recognize her; you know? A grown woman – dignified, severe presence that she was. But I’ll be damned if her hands weren’t brimming full of poultices and injury kits. I looked up into those big, brown eyes and saw that same girl again.”

Cassandra clears her throat, glimpsing uncomfortably to her partner. _No doubt missing any relevancy._ But Leliana does not take her eyes from the elder.

“I remember thinking that the Maker works in mysterious ways,” Miriam continues. “That if I had taken her on as my assistant – if she had agreed – that perhaps she wouldn’t have been made a Grey Warden.” Miriam downs the last contents of her cup. “As she left Lothering I thought: _if anyone can end this Blight, it’s that young woman._ She just had that effect on people; you know?”

“I do,” Leliana whispers.

“And we all know how that story ends,” Miriam smiles, standing to wash her now empty cup. Cassandra takes this opportunity to pull Leliana aside.

“Another dead end. And this one with no leads. I do not think we should linger here any longer.” The Seeker crosses her arms. “Do you have any other suggestions?” Leliana absently plays with her necklace, thoughts straying to a little girl giving out petal headbands. _She always did enjoy her gift giving._ She looks down at the beryl stone between her fingers as an idea takes her.

“Leliana?” Cassandra scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Leliana, are you even listening to me?” 

* * *

 

**9:30 Dragon**

Lethe and Leliana are positioned at opposite ends of the boat. _Good._ Morrigan makes her way over to the warden without a second glance back at the other woman. Lethe watches the landscape they leave behind shrink with a sympathetic immersion, weight resting on her forearms as she leans over the dark water.

“Are we simply going to ignore how I was struck by that _wretched girl?_ ”

 “I see you’re up. Last I checked you were out like a brick; never realized you were such a deep sleeper.” Lethe does her best at a cordial smile – but she was never good at false gaiety. “How are you feeling?” Morrigan does not deign to answer with anything but a scoff. “Right, right; I hear it’s not for everyone – being stabbed, that is. But forewarning, if you plan to continually consort with me and my ilk on a mission to conquer _invading forces of evil_ it’s probably going to happen again.” She chuckles, sighing when she notices Morrigan is not amused. “Look, we were all bewitched in the Fade, Morrigan.”

_She always puts others first._ The thought plucks at the back of Morrigan’s mind; she does her best to dismiss it. Instead of responding immediately, she allows Lethe a few restless moments of fidgeting before she speaks. “’Tis a weakness; you know that, don’t you?”

“ _We can never just have a straightforward discussion between two friends, can we?”_ Lethe mumbles to herself. She sighs before properly answering Morrigan. “No; no, I don’t know. I haven’t the slightest idea of what you could be talking about.”

_It’s who she is, she can’t help it._ “This manner of protecting, _caring for others_ – ‘tis a weakness.” Morrigan inwardly applauds herself for the stunned expression that staggers Lethe’s flippancy. “That little Lothering mage that you stepped in place for; the imbecile templar-warden you took the arrow for – ‘tis a weakness and ‘tis the only reason you were felled in either case.”

Lethe chuckles – always quick to tame her emotions and cover them with an empty laugh or joke. “Both instances were simply… twitches. Muscle-jerk reactions. In neither case did I realize the lasting consequences at the time. If I had, well… maybe I would be at a very different point in life right now, or maybe I would make the same decision.” She smiles at Morrigan. “But we’ll never know. What’s done is done and I’d really like to leave the past in the past.”

_She denies it, acts repulsed by the notion, even._ “Easier said than done, dear Warden. I think perhaps the taint isn’t the only thing keeping you from the sweet submission to dreams every night.”

“Perhaps.”

“What is she talking about, Lethe?” Leliana asks.

Lethe turns suddenly at the unexpected arrival of the Chantry sister.  “Leliana—when did you—”

_It shouldn’t irk you like so, but it does._ “Oh, you haven’t figured it out?” Morrigan interrupts. “And here I thought with the two of you growing so close, sharing a watch…” Morrigan raises her eyebrows in a purely malicious attempt at deceitful innocence. “Pray tell me then, where is it you think that our beloved heroine wanders off to after each of your shifts?”

“Morrigan,” Lethe warns, face revealing nothing.

She disregards Lethe’s tone, continuing without missing a beat, “How well do you even know our enigmatic leader?” Narrow eyes hone in on Leliana as her voice drops to a serpentine meter, “ _How well would you like to?_ ” 

Lethe’s brows burrow in overt irritation. “Leliana, can you give us a minute?”

Not knowing what else to do and unable to overlook the supplicating glint unmistakable in Lethe’s eyes, Leliana nods dumbly, retreating down the stairs.

Lethe watches her descend out of view before spinning on Morrigan.

“Okay, _what is your problem?_ I’m sorry you got stabbed, but really, what the hell is this actually about? You saw what happened to me! If you need to point blame to someone, it should be me! Maker, I deserve it.” Her stance softens as she sighs, rubbing a hand down her face. “I completely lost control. If it wasn’t for you…”

_Maybe, despite everything, you do still care._ “No, you don’t get to do that!” Anger flares through Morrigan. “Don’t make this about that—like you had no choice. You are no victim here, Lethe – no helpless prey of circumstances. You are who you were _born to be_.” 

A humorless laugh falls from Lethe’s lips. She turns away from Morrigan, a hollow undertone making its way to Morrigan’s ears, “What do you know, Morrigan?”

“I know enough.” A breeze skirts across the length of the boat; she breathes in the muggy air and watches the light wind play effortlessly with the gossamer wisps of golden hair that have slipped Lethe’s braid. _Yeah, maybe you do._ “I know you.”

“What does it matter to you, anyway?” Lethe asks, turning around to face her. “If it were up to you, you’d still be huddled in that little hut with your mother pretending the outside world didn’t exist – ‘ _Blight? What Blight? Cheery good tea, Mother.’_ ”

_But the question remains, the question you can’t help but ask yourself…_ “I don’t sound like that; don’t be so tragic, Lethe.” Morrigan rolls her eyes. Now that her ire has cooled she’s left with a frigid prudence. “In the end, everyone has the power to choose. Maybe not what the world will toss at them, but you chose how you reacted. You _fled._ ”

“What are you talking about?” Lethe shakes her head in agitation, “Why are we talking about choices? What does this have to do with you and me or – _damn it_ – anything at all? Since when do you care?”

_If she always puts other first…_ “And there it ‘tis.” Morrigan breathes a callous chuckle. “Don’t you understand? Surely you remember; you were the one respite in my lonely existence with my mother. You were my first and only friend. _You fled._ I hate you for leaving – for making me care, giving me hope, giving me something to look forward to in my day. _I hate you_. That’s why we can’t have a _straightforward discussion between friends_.” Morrigan spits Lethe’s words from earlier back at her, turning from her then and adding over her shoulder in nothing but a whisper, “ _And that’s why caring is a weakness_.”

_Why was it never you?_

* * *

 

After leaving Redcliffe Castle the group ventured The Imperial Highway north towards the coastlands. Ultimately, they would make their way to the nation’s capital to seek out a chantry brother in regards to the urn; but first they were to stop at an abandoned warden base in the northern snow-capped mountains.

Things were looking up – the demon in Connor had safely been eliminated, the Arl seemed stable, albeit in a coma, and now they searched for Andraste’s Ashes. Leliana should be excited about the possibility of discovering the final resting place of Andraste, however, something was troubling her. Or perhaps she should say, _someone._ They had spent the previous night at the castle and although it was a welcome and much needed full nights’ rest for everyone, Leliana found herself missing the hours of companionship normally spent alone with Lethe during the onset of twilight.

She looked around her. The group dynamic feels different, so terribly off balance. Lethe was far ahead, distancing herself from something. Whether tangible or impalpable, something was haunting Lethe; she could see it in those expressive eyes of hers – a certain bedeviling.

Alistair seems out of sorts also, unsure where he stands after the argument before leaving for The Circle Tower. She can’t help but sympathize with him. She had felt the same when she had her vision – dejected and insecure, torn between being true to your morals and the approval of a valued friend. Leliana wonders how soon they’ll make up, surely it wouldn’t take too long. The two wardens had seemed close, like they had been through much together, but Lethe could be so stubborn and proud.

And then there was Morrigan… The atmosphere around the witch felt noticeably icier. _Literally, colder._ Leliana was sure she could see her breath when she walked too close earlier. She thought back to the conversation she had interrupted on the boat yesterday, suspecting the mood today was no coincidence. Leliana may wish it was otherwise, but she could not stop thinking about what Morrigan had said.

_‘And here I thought with the two of you growing so close, sharing a watch… where is it you think that she wanders off to after each of your shifts?’_

She’s not sure which statement bothers her more. Or why it should bother her at all, for that matter. It’s not really any of her business, she reminds herself. She came along purely for the sake of the Blight. Maybe she’ll make friends, maybe not. It shouldn’t matter that Lethe doesn’t open up to her, it’s not necessary to end the Blight. But she can’t help but wonder what Morrigan was suggesting…

Speaking of suggesting… What was that witch implying? The two of them weren’t _close._ And, ‘ _How well would you like to?’_ Leliana scoffs and shakes her head. _What was that supposed to mean?_ Leliana sighs. She was overthinking it. Morrigan was just being mean, trying to mess with her head. And as much as Leliana hates to admit it, it was working. Maybe she’ll find time to talk with her about it later.

She sighs again, emerging from her obsessing to inspect the world around her. The air was still sticky, and would be for much of their voyage north as they trailed the edges of Lake Calenhad. Leliana didn’t mind, though. Keeping her hair short was quite convenient and she had come to appreciate the advantages. Gazing forward, Leliana notices that Lethe is not as far away as she was previously. The warden rubs her neck, tumbling the length of braid over her left shoulder as she does so.

Some indiscriminate amount of time (Leliana is not so sure) goes by and Lethe turns around and catches Leliana’s gawking eye (she hadn’t realized she was still staring). In an effort to shrug it off, she jogs to catch up to the warden.

“So, Soldier’s Peak? That is the name, yes?” Lethe nods, eyes watching the road ahead. Up close Leliana can intimately survey the warden’s face. The circles underneath Lethe’s eyes are as dark as ever. It’s hard to believe anyone could have had trouble sleeping on the heavenly beds of the arl’s estate. Her trademark grimace looks less hardened, more _melancholy_ today, Leliana notes. They walk together in silence for what feels like an eternity to Leliana and she tries to keep her eyes focused ahead. She wants so badly to comfort her, hug her, stroke her cheek – anything to erase that agonizing frown from her face – even if she doesn’t fully understand why it aches her to see the warden like this.

“How did you sleep last night? Like a proper lady, awash with pillows and blissful sheets?” Leliana giggles. Lethe looks at her curiously and she instantly feels mortified for saying something so vacuous. “I’m sorry,” Leliana amends quickly. “I was just being silly.”

“Don’t be,” she smiles at her, “Sorry – don’t be sorry, I mean. I need to stop looking for the hidden meanings in every little thing people say. It’s making me paranoid.”

“Frequent talks with Morrigan will do that to a person, no?” Lethe doesn’t react, even her telling eyes do not flinch, so Leliana continues, “She seems—”

“She’s just being her and I’m just being me,” Lethe cuts her off equably. She smiles over at Leliana but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “It’s a complicated friendship.” Lethe laughs, trying to make light of it, but she’s not fooling her and Leliana thinks she knows it.

Before Leliana can press further, Alistair trots up beside them. Hit by a wave of irrational sulkiness, Leliana reminds herself that tonight the two of them will resume their watch together and she’ll have the woman all to herself. _Which is creepy, Leliana, don’t think things like that._ Blushing, she silently admonishes herself for her intrusive thoughts.

“I want to talk about what happened,” Alistair says. “At Redcliffe.”

“You were there.” Lethe’s answer is brusque, but it doesn’t appear to be intentionally so. She squints ahead, her attention caught by a figure up the road.

“I just wanted to thank you.” Alistair doesn’t notice, he’s determined to say what has been running through his mind all afternoon. “You went out of your way to save the arl’s family and you did it, even though it would have been easier not to.”

It’s sweet, Leliana thinks to herself, too bad Lethe isn’t listening.

“Hey I think that person is running this way—” Leliana and Alistair barely have time to comprehend what Lethe says before a disheveled woman approaches.

It all happens so fast after that. A tree falls and a fireball explodes. Leliana quickly surveys her surroundings; traps litter the ground, and bandits fire on them from above. It’s difficult to follow exactly how it all happened, but one thing was clear – this was an ambush. Three archers on each side, a mage and a smattering of skirmishers down the middle. Alistair has the mage taken out before Leliana can blink. As he and Lethe blunder through enemies at close range, Leliana concentrates on the scattered traps by their feet, praying to be fast enough to prevent either from making one wrong step. She hears a sharp yelp to her right and sees Gabe skidding from a collision with a tripwire.

The outcry also gets Lethe’s attention and the distraction earns her a gory slash through the front of her vest. Fury contorts her into the embodiment of vengeance as she pivots to take out two enemies with one brutal maneuver. An arrow from the left flies just centimeters off Lethe’s face and she gracefully makes her way to the offending archers, hurdling and shimmying past wires and claw traps. Leliana equips her own bow to assist, dispatching one before a loud grunt to her right disrupts her concentration. Alistair is supporting the mabari against the last of the attackers on that side, broken wire snagged around his heavy boots. Clearly able to handle themselves, Leliana turns back to where Lethe had been a moment prior, amazed to find her approaching the bard, mindful of the traps she was stepping over and an arm clutching to her abdomen.

At this distance Leliana could see the blood streaming down one of Lethe’s ears, suggesting the arrow from earlier was closer than she had realized. By the time the others – Wynne, Sten, and Morrigan – make it to the scene the fight is well and truly over.

Wynne immediately makes her way to Lethe, scowling as she peels away the arm cradling the length of the warden’s stomach. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Lethe grumbles as she pulls away. The expanse of red seeping from her torn leathers and that which coats her arm conveying otherwise. “Don’t worry,” she smirks. As Gabe and Alistair reach the group, Lethe kneels to greet her dog, wincing imperceptibly to everyone but Leliana’s expert eye. “You all right, boy?” He barks merrily before devouring the crunchy treat she offers him. She laughs as she stands, roughing the short hairs at the top of his head.

“I wouldn’t _have_ to worry if you would allow me to heal it,” the older woman chides, arms crossed.

Lethe rolls her eyes, “I’ll let you take a look at it when we make camp later. Before anything else I want to investigate _what_ happened and _why_ it happened.” She pokes around at a few boxes and searches the bodies of the deceased for clues but comes up empty until she arrives at a blond elf with a prominent facial tattoo. “He’s alive.” Lethe stands, glancing over at her fellow warden with a morbid curl of her lips. “Must’ve been one of yours.”

Indeed, although not something to necessarily brag about, as Leliana looks around she notices Lethe had managed to dismember several of the foes that had crossed her blade. She toes the unconscious elf. After a pause, she crouches over him, unsheathing the dagger nestled at the back of her belt.

“Maybe we should question him first. You know, see who sent him,” Alistair suggests.

Her brows shoot up, like she hadn’t even considered the possibility. “You think?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” he shrugs.

“Couldn’t hurt,” she repeats back to him, smirking, “Is that a challenge? All right, maybe we could salvage some wire or something to tie him with before we wake him up.” Leliana retrieves a length of hemp twine from her satchel and Lethe, without a thought to do otherwise, allows the surprise and mirth to reach her face when she takes it from her. “Do I want to know what you’ve been holding onto this for?”

“I don’t know, do you?” Leliana challenges her with a brazen smirk.

Leliana watches Lethe’s tongue flick over her lower lip ever so slightly before she takes it between her teeth, effectively hampering the reaction. Truth was, there were several situations a skilled rogue such as herself might find use for some rope. Of course now, looking down at Lethe – who was blatantly checking her out – there was only one that Leliana’s mind could come up with. However, before Lethe could respond, the elf at her feet began to stir, causing the warden to jump to her feet.

“Ooh, I rather thought I would wake up dead… Or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

“Who sent you?” A simple question imparted evenly; but the dangerous glint in Lethe’s eyes obfuscated her smoothly spoken words.

“Ah, so I am to be interrogated, then? Let me save you some time. My name is Zevran – Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, brought here for the sole purpose of slaying any surviving Grey Wardens. Which I have failed at, sadly.”

“ _Sadly_ ,” Lethe’s mouth twists into a tight-lipped imitation of a smile and then exhales, grounding her molars together. _“Can I kill him now?”_ she manages to say through clenched teeth.

“Who hired you?” Alistair asks the elf, throwing a pacifying glance to Lethe.

“A rather taciturn fellow in the capital, Loghain, I think his name was? Yes, that’s it.”

“Okay, it was Loghain – which I’m sure we all kind of already figured that anyway, am I right? _Can we kill him now?”_ Lethe asks again.

“Lethe…” Leliana begs the woman’s consideration, willing to express her plea in the quiet utterance of her name alone. _No more unnecessary death, not so soon after Redcliffe and Connor and… and the demons – her demons, all their demons. Please._ Lethe sighs, nodding to Leliana, visibly deflating – _understanding,_ Leliana suspects.

“Unless you’re quite stuck on cutting my throat or something equally gruesome,” Zevran begins as the silence stretches on and no one has made a move to dispatch of him. “Perhaps you’d care to hear a proposal?”

Squinting her eyes suspiciously, Lethe does not speak, so Leliana suggests something in her stead, “Having a Crow might be useful, they are an elite order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done… so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.”

 “I’m flattered,” Lethe rolls her eyes. “But that doesn’t exactly convince me to let him live.”

“Well, here’s the thing, I failed to kill you – so my life is forfeit. That’s how it works. If you don’t kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living, and you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause, so let me serve you, instead.”

“If you are so ‘ _renowned for getting the job done,’_ what’s to stop you from finishing the job later?” Lethe’s voice is still clipped, but it lacks the deadly edge it had just a moment ago.

“To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child.” Lethe mutters a hushed curse under her breath, scowling down at the ground as she kicks loose dirt clumps by her feet. From what Leliana has gathered about the warden, she’s rather confident she just witnessed the moment Lethe realizes she’s not going to kill him and the bard breathes a scant sigh of relief.

“I think I paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold,” he continues and Lethe crosses her arms over her chest to regulate her fidgeting. “The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can’t touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on principle for failing the first time. Honestly, I’d rather take my chances with you.” 

Lethe clears her throat but appears engaged in an inner dispute of her thoughts.

“It is the seven of us versus the Blight, Lethe,” Leliana says as she reaches for the other woman’s arm, however, Lethe chooses that moment to readjust her stance, placing her hands on her hips. Leliana lets her grasping fingers drop to her side, “He may be able to help us,” she finishes lamely.

“I am skilled at many things,” Zevran offers, as if sensing the reluctant deliberation. “From fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more… sophisticated… now that my attempts have failed. I also know a great many jokes. Twelve massage techniques, six different card games? I do wonderful at parties, no?”

“Why?” She says the one word as if it should make perfect sense, like he should know exactly what it is that she asks. Leliana knows; Leliana can follow the string of thoughts, she knows the one word is heavy with more than a single innocent question. But this newcomer does not, and to his credit, Lethe could be difficult to decipher. _And rather distracting in that intimidating pose_. When he does not answer, she rolls her eyes and clarifies. “What do you want from me?” Leliana feels her heart skip erratically, her jaw slackens and there’s a small voice within her craving to answer that question herself. 

“Well… Let’s see. Being allowed to live would be nice, and would make me marginally more useful to you. And somewhere down the line should you decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then, I’m yours.” She feels a cold wrench in her gut, but Leliana forces her face to remain neutral. “Is that fair?” Zevran asks.

Lethe nods. “Fair.”

“What you’re taking the assassin with us now?” Alistair’s pitch jumps an octave. “Does that really seem like a good idea?” Leliana wonders if safety is the only concern on his mind.

Lethe shrugs. “You each get one,” she smirks at Leliana and Leliana recognizes what she means; understands that Lethe is saying she considers Leliana to truly be one of them and the warmth of it all swells her heart indescribably. She hadn’t imagined that this is how it would feel, that it would feel this _good_.

“Welcome Zevran,” Leliana smiles maybe too enthusiastically, but really she couldn’t help herself. Everything was just... _hopeful_. “Having an Antivian Crow join us sounds like a fine plan.”

“Oh? You are another companion-to-be, then?” Zevran responds, “I wasn’t aware such loveliness existed amongst adventurers, surely.”

“Or maybe not.” Leliana feels the blush heat her cheeks when she sees the smirk on Lethe’s face curl into something a little more crooked and she winks at the redhead.

“Why did you have to wake up?” Lethe sighs, “It’s so much easier to kill people when it happens in the heat of battle…”         

“Yet another foolish mistake made by our impetuous leader,” Morrigan asserts, crossing her arms. “I can see your lifespan shorten with every _choice_ you make.”

“Oh, my choices, is it? Not – I don’t know – the darkspawn taint?” Lethe's smirk does not waver as she helps the assassin to his feet, motioning him onward. She rubs the fingers of her left hand into her temple, keeping a cool, if inhospitable, temperament. “I suppose I will be having to keep an eye on you, won’t I?” she groans, more than a little aggravated.

“I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation, this I swear.” Alistair’s scowl darkens further at the elf’s declaration and Leliana takes that as the answer to her earlier musings. “I don’t know if you realize it, my dear, but you are bleeding.” Zevran rakes his eyes unabashedly over Lethe’s frame. Gazing not only upon the swipe of her abdomen, but every curve of her body, allowing his eyes to linger on her chest and the contour of her hips.

“It’s better that way, trust me,” she replies, eyes’ steeled and combative. She turns to lead on and he eagerly accompanies her. Gabe bounds to Lethe’s side.

“At least let me bandage it for you, I have quite the dexterous fingers, I assure you…”

Leliana can hear another groan from Lethe and a menacing growl from her mabari followed by, _“Come on, move it, loverboy.”_ And as the two walk ahead an all but out of earshot, _“Six card games? You really only know six?”_

Sten hangs back, taking up his usual position in the rear while Alistair and Wynne trudge forward, equally worried after their leader’s wellbeing – albeit for different reasons. “She’s not going to let me look at that wound, is she?” Wynne says as she shakes her head, more stating than asking. Alistair grumbles something in response but Leliana doesn’t catch it.

That leaves her with Morrigan. If ever there was a time to confront her…

“I don’t know why she allows you to treat her the way that you do.” Leliana announces, still looking forward at the departing figure of the warden as she speaks – she would rather not look at the witch if she could help it. “You clearly care for her.”

“Love grows rotten on the vine so quickly. A sour fruit that offers only memory of sweetness. What is it worth, truly?”

Leliana briefly glances over when the other woman speaks. If Morrigan is surprised by her admission, she doesn’t show it – and Leliana considers herself quite accomplished when it comes to reading people. _Maybe it’s because the only thing the witch ever reveals is disdain._ _Hateful_ _disdain, arrogant disdain, vile disdain._ “Everything. Only a dried-up shell of a person would not know that.” She stalks away, leaving it at that, knowing she may regret saying anything later. She already feels a twinge of regret for interfering on the Antivan Crow’s behalf as she watches his fingers dance over Lethe’s ripped, bloody, and _exquisite_ torso. She rubs the bridge of her nose, grousing as she jogs to catch up. _When did all these feelings get here?_              

* * *

 

The two wardens sit before the fire, laying their final touches to the evening meal. Beads of sweat lace both their foreheads; the fire’s blaze is an unwelcome companion to the night’s already sweltering summer heat. 

“If you’d like, I could take watch with him?” It’s a quiet offer. Alistair hopes it doesn’t sound insincere. He’s noticed her distinctly on edge behavior (given away by the constant constricting of her jaw and how her ever shifting eyes frequent the blond elf) and truthfully – as much as he would hate spending any time with the antivan – he would do anything to alleviate some of the strain she so clearly feels.

“No,” she smiles weakly. “I just wish he’d realize every time he tries to flirt I’m _this_ much closer to going into a blood rage. But then I start thinking, _maybe that’s what he wants,_ you know – lose my cool, prod me into a fight.” She groans as she drops her face into her hands. “Do you hear me? This is what crazy looks like,” she mumbles. She suddenly bolts upright, eyes wide, voice hushed, “ _Maker’s_ _Breath_ , _I'm my_ _mother_.”

“ _Dramatic,”_ Alistair chuckles when she lightly swats him. 

“Besides, I think that early shift with Leliana works out best for Wynne, don’t you think?” When Alistair quirks an eyebrow at her, Lethe quickly attempts to backpedal. “I’m-I’m not saying she’s _old_ , like _too old,_ I just mean…” Unexpectedly, she scowls, seeming to be mulling something over in her head. After a couple of minutes Alistair decides to break her from her reverie.

“Lethe?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking…” she sighs. “Maker, I’m such a sucker,” Lethe grumbles. “Qunari murderer, chantry zealot, preachy schoolmistress, a fucking assassin sent to kill me…”

“—Witch of the Wilds,” Alistair picks up where she left off. Lethe cuts him a glare. “What?”

They both look over to the fringe of camp where Morrigan’s lonely tent stands. Lethe hasn’t spoken with her since their explosive conversation. Nearing on three weeks passed, they are but a day’s journey away from Soldier’s Peak. A wistful frown pulls at Lethe’s face. She looks on a little longer before returning her attention to the simmering pot before them.

“There’s history between you two?” Alistair is the first to sever the silence. The question he was asking wasn’t if it was true or not. He had figured that much upon their first meeting in the Korcari Wilds. What he was asking was if she would elaborate.

“Yes. History.” And her answer, as he had guessed it would be, was _no._

So, Alistair resorted to what he did best: change the subject with self-deprecating humor. “And let’s not forget the cheesy templar!” She chuckles and that’s all he could ever want.

“You’re not a templar, Alistair. You never were.” She dons one of her rare genuine smiles. “You’re a Grey Warden and a noble one, at that.”

Alistair feels his witty retort catch in his throat. _Speechless, she has struck me speechless. Maker, I’m a mess._

Lethe snorts out a laugh, shaking him from his sentimentality.

“Ha, literally – a _noble_ Grey Warden!”

“Hey!” Alistair exclaims in feigned affront and she ruptures into a fit of laughter. He laughs along with her because, really, _how could he be offended by the sight before him?_ _She is beautiful when she forgets she has the world’s fate on her shoulders, when she can just be herself._ Lethe composes herself, blessing him with the simplest of smiles and his heart plunges in his chest.

“No, but seriously, Alistair,” Lethe’s eyes drop from his before he can catch them drown in their apprehension. “You thanked me for the whole situation with Eamon and the Circle, but that’s not right. I should be the one—what you did back at Redcliffe with Connor and I—you didn’t have to—it would have been easier to—” She closes her eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath before opening them again, stealing the breath from his lungs with the wholehearted vulnerability cast from her eyes. “ _Thank you.”_ She looks down, scrunching her nose a bit before smiling self-consciously back up at him. “Thank you for stopping me. That’s not who I am.”

“Don’t mention it,” he manages to choke out. “Nobody’s perfect; remember – royal bastard, that’s me.” She smiles patiently, seeming to sense the struggle going on within him and giving him time to still his rapidly beating heart. “To be honest, I avoided telling you because I didn’t want you to look at me differently. And then with the whole – you practically jumped in front of me to take an arrow thing – I didn’t want you to… well, I don’t want you ever feeling the need to do that again. In fact, I’m saying it now: don’t ever do that again, _please._ I mean, _Maker, what if you had died?”_ She scowls when he says that but he can see the creeping smile she is trying to hide. “You’re right, you’re right; I’m rambling. What I’m trying to say is, sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Alistair.” She’s wearing an easy smile now. “Besides, didn’t I tell you? We all have our secrets.” He can’t help the blush that warms his face. “You know, before all this, before – _everything_ –  I was _fun._ I lived a life that was exhilarating; I joked, I laughed, I was interesting and breathtaking – maybe I was a touch shallow, but I was appealing. Now, it takes such a forced effort to smile, even; and when I do manage it feels _fake._ And Andraste’s dimples am I _snappy_.”

“Who? You? _Never_ ,” Alistair gasps, placing an exaggerative hand to his chest in mock dismay.

“Don’t even pretend to deny it,” she laughs openly at his teasing, shaking her head and sighing as their laughter dies down. “Sometimes, I don’t even recognize myself. I’m starting to understand the whole _‘grey wardens have that look about them’_ thing.”

“You’re still all those things, Lethe, you just happen to also be the woman the whole of Ferelden depends upon. Sure, you wouldn’t be _my_ first pick, but…” That earns him a side-eyed glance and chuckle which has him laughing. “Look, before I lose my nerve,” Alistair pulls a rose from his satchel. “Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?”

“Of course,” she takes it from him gingerly. “Haven’t you noticed? I’m quite the botanist,” she smirks, delicately pricking a finger on a thorn. “It’s perfect. Medically useless as far as I know, but lovely.”

“I picked it in Lothering,” Lethe’s eyes flash to Leliana a few feet behind him but she brings them back to Alistair as he continues speaking. “I remember thinking, _‘How could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness?’_ I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So, I’ve had it ever since.”

“I’m glad you didn’t leave it in Lothering. It _is_ beautiful.” Lethe strokes the velvet petals gently, almost reverently. “I have always loved roses; something about having this attractive and coveted thing with this vicious layer of protection to defend itself with, if need be; I don’t know,” Lethe says, breathing a tentative, purer chuckle than her usual as she examines the dot of crimson blossoming on the tip of her finger.

 “I thought I might… give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.” Lethe gazes over his shoulder at Leliana again, this time with the look of a conspiracy in her eyes.

“Thuhh—thank you.” She clears her throat as panic threatens to bar her airway. “I should—the stew looks ready, and ha, Morrigan looks hungry – I should bring her some before she storms over here…” She quickly dishes out a bowl and races over to Morrigan’s tent. “I need to talk to you.” She squats in front of the mage, placing the food between them.

“Well,” Morrigan scoffs, “I find this rather invasive—”

“Look, I know we’re not real _chummy_ right now,” another scoff from Morrigan. “But both of them compared me to a _fucking rose_.”

A moment’s pause. “What?”

“Yup,” Lethe throws a hand up in a show of annoyance.

The two study each other and as another lapse of silence passes, Morrigan hums a low snicker. Lethe tries to smother the smile forming on her face with an overdone scowl but thereafter dissolves into a fit of laughter herself.

“Yup,” Lethe huffs again, “Fuck me, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEELINGS ARE HARD  
> Ask me questions and I will answer them *finger guns*


End file.
